


Innocence Died Screaming

by agentsofpuppies



Series: Innocence Died Screaming [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Clintasha - Freeform, Dad Coulson, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Natasha Romanov Joins SHIELD, Nick Fury is Not Amused, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Strike Team Delta, angry soviet cinnamon roll, clint/nat - Freeform, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 74,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentsofpuppies/pseuds/agentsofpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint corners Natalia in a hotel room, shots are fired, and a partnership accidentally sort-of happens. Yeah, another Strike Team Delta origin story. Not Age of Ultron compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guten Tag

Drechsler lay spread eagle on the bed in the corner, wrists cuffed to the iron bars of the headboard, naked except for a Hermes silk tie hanging loose around his broken neck. The last vestiges of a salacious grin still lingered around his mouth. Natalia sneered at the body in disgust and wriggled back into her too-short, too-tight black dress. The asshole hadn't even noticed the gun holster strapped to her thigh until she was straddling him.  _No peeking_ , she'd purred as she slipped the dress straps from her shoulders and advanced to the bed, and the obedient bastard had kept his eyes locked with hers the entire time.

Natalia paused, listening hard for the sound of voices or the creaky floorboard two doors down. Satisfied that the mark's associates were still occupied in the hotel's bar, she crossed the room to the desk and booted up his laptop.

Technically the hit was finished. She could make her exit and rendezvous with the rival drug lord who'd hired her, receive the other half of her pay. Information was valuable, however, and she had a few minutes before anyone noticed the lack of sex coming from the upstairs suite.

Lithe, quick fingers played across the laptop keys. She knew the hotel was a front, a cover for the massive amounts of cash and product that exchanged hands each week. Drechsler wasn't an intelligent man, all things considered. Within moments she had several spreadsheets saved to a flash drive; delivery schedules and drop off locations, client lists, distribution maps, logins and security keys for several offshore bank accounts, which she'd make use of herself, and a list of suppliers.

The floorboard down the hallway creaked. Natalia pulled the flash drive free and shoved it down the front of her dress just as the door slid open. One of the men from the bar slipped into the room, muttering to himself as he threw the deadbolt.

"Nice one, Barton. Real subtle."

Angry German shouting echoed up the stairwell. Natalia assumed the man was berating himself. She pegged Barton as an unmitigated idiot and clicked on the little desk lamp.

" _Guten tag_ ," she deadpanned, watching with amusement as he startled and whipped around and raised a bow of all things. She leveled her gun at him in return.

"Aw, shit."

She watched his eyes sweep over the room, lingering on the dead drug lord in the corner. He was so obviously American when he spoke, she couldn't understand why the thugs downstairs hadn't caught on sooner.

Every instinct was telling her to shoot him, end him and get out - she could hear the angry Germans systematically searching the rooms, kicking in doors and shouting - but she wanted to know what business an American spy had infiltrating this particular drug ring. Information was valuable, after all.

"Shit," he repeated. "You work fast."

"How long have  _you_  been trying to seduce Drechsler?" she quipped. The man's lips pressed together in a tight frown. "Didn't mean to steal your mark," she added insincerely.

"He wasn't my mark."

 _Should've shot him_ , Natalia chastised herself. She leveled her second gun at the archer's head as he advanced a step further into the room. She could guess what was coming next.

"I was supposed to stop  _you_  before you murdered anyone else."

There it was.

"You know who I am?" she asked, stalling for time. She moved closer to the window, regrettably closed and locked. The archer lifted an eyebrow.

"You have an M.O.," he shot back sarcastically, gesturing to the body on the bed. "Black Widow. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. S.H.I.E.L.D. sent me to terminate you."

"And how's that going?"

The Germans were tearing apart the room next door. Their suite would be next.

"Not so well, actually."

They stood at an impasse for several long moments. Natalia watched the archer shift his weight from one foot to the other, saw his finger twitch against the bowstring. Drechsler's men pounded on the door. All she had to do was hold out long enough for them to break in. She could claim the archer had killed Drechsler, play the part of the terrified sobbing prostitute (God, how cliche), slip out unnoticed while they handled the archer for her.

The arrow shot past her at shoulder height. The window exploded.

_..._


	2. Partners?

" _Dolbo yeb_ ," Natalia snarled, and wrenched the jagged shard of glass from her forearm. The archer was gone, presumably down the fire escape, and the angry German shouting turned into suggestions to shoot the lock. Maybe the archer wasn't the idiot she'd initially thought.

What had she possibly done to get S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention? She considered KGB assassins well under their radar, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. It should be her boss's bosses who ended up with kill orders from S.H.I.E.L.D. She was a pawn, expendable. The Red Room would send another girl, she would be replaced, the missions and assassinations would carry on with hardly an interruption.

She pressed her palm against the cut on her arm, but a moment's pressure wouldn't be enough to stop it bleeding. She wiped her bloody hand on her dress, gathered her guns, and picked herself up off the floor. The thick wood around the doorknob began to splinter as the men outside emptied their clips.

The idea that the archer had followed her, seamlessly inserted himself into the group downstairs, that she hadn't noticed, made her feel twitchy. She'd been tailing the mark for close to a week; how long had the archer been tailing her?

The door banged open and rebounded off the wall. Natalia fired two shots, one round from each gun, and vaulted out onto the fire escape after the archer.

He was sprinting down the alley, bow slung over one shoulder. Natalia lined up her shot. Back of the head, a clean kill, but curiosity stayed her hand again. If he knew enough about her mission to be waiting in the hotel bar tonight, who had passed him the information? He needed to be interrogated, not killed. Not yet.

She adjusted her aim, intending to shoot out his knee from behind, but the moment had passed. Cries of ' _Dead!_ ' and ' _They are together!_ ' and ' _Partners!_ ' reached her from the hotel suite. She snorted with derision and started down the fire escape, slipping down the icy steps three at a time as the first bullets pinged off the metal grating above. The archer wouldn't last half a mission as her partner. He was too sloppy, too undisciplined. Sure, he was apparently skilled at lurking and tracking, but whatever he'd managed to do downstairs had royally fucked up both their missions.

A car swung into the mouth of the alley, the man in the passenger seat spraying bullets indiscriminately through the open window.

The archer's yelp of " _I'm not with her_!" echoed back to her and she jumped from the last landing into the snow below. The drift was deeper than she anticipated, and she staggered and turned her ankle in the impractical fuck-me heels she'd selected to match the dress. A body thunked heavily into the snow beside her, an arrow protruding from its eye socket.

Was the archer _covering_ her?

She spun and raised her guns, taking out the remaining four on the fire escape with precise shots to the forehead. The archer was crouched behind a dumpster halfway down the alley, an arrow nocked and aimed at the fire escape but no target now. She expected him to point the bow at her, and she leveled her guns at him in anticipation, but he spun to peer around the corner of the dumpster instead, his back to her as he assessed the group spilling from the backseat of the car.

Still an idiot, then. Nobody with a sense of self-preservation turned their back on the Black Widow.

She pressed herself against the brick and waited for a break in the gunfire coming from the end of the alley. She was too proud to admit it, but the fight would go easier with the archer's help. The opposite end of the alley terminated in the high walls of surrounding buildings; the only way out was past the machine guns and hired muscle.

A temporary truce, that was all. The old 'enemy of my enemy is my friend' proverb. She wasn't helping him so much as using him as a means to achieve her own ends. She could live with that.

An access door opened halfway down the alley and a thick man wielding a crowbar stepped into the snow with slow, heavy steps, apparently intent on sneaking in to wallop the archer. He was preoccupied firing arrows around the corner of the dumpster.

She recalled the corpse with an arrow through its face, heard the uncomfortable whisper of her conscience in the back of her mind, informing her that she owed the archer. She had long ago learned to silence that voice, but somehow found herself sprinting down the alley on a sprained ankle in three inch heels. The acrobatics were second nature, muscle memory, and in moments she'd vaulted and tackled the man, snapping his neck and rolling to her feet with less grace than was usual.

"Nice," the archer said, eyes a little wide, but she brushed off his compliment in favor of forcing the door closed. Debt paid. They were square, and next time a body had an arrow sticking through it, it wouldn't be because she needed her ass covered.

"So what?" she panted, and jammed a wooden pallet under the handle of the access door. She worked the discarded crowbar in for extra leverage. "You expect me to thank you?"

"Don't," he advised. "They don't get to kill my mark. That's all."

_Liar_. He knew he needed her help to get out of the mess he'd made.

She leaned against the dumpster on the pretense of checking her clips and counting bullets (seven left in each gun, she counted as she shot), shifting her weight to the ankle that wasn't throbbing sharp needles of pain up her leg.

"Why'd you take that guy out?" he asked.

Well, since they were being honest.

"I need you alive if I'm going to interrogate you."

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile.

Two more men appeared on the fire escape. She shot one through the chest as the archer loosed an arrow. It imbedded itself in the brick wall instead of the German with the gun, and Natalia scoffed at his aim and gave a soft "Ha!" of triumph. The archer's eyebrows drew together as he threw her an annoyed glance.

The wall, much like the window before, exploded. Tiny fragments of masonry skipped down the alley and pinged off the dumpster in the wake of the pyrotechnics.

"At your leisure, sweetheart," he drawled sarcastically, a smug little grin playing across his lips. "We're pinned down. We've got time."

He wasn't wrong. The Germans alternated shouting at them to surrender and firing short volleys of bullets down the alley.

It wasn't really an interrogation if the interrogate-ee was willing, but anything was better than watching the archer bask in his sense of superiority. She had a strong urge to snap his stupid archaic bow and teach him a lesson about one-upping the Black Widow.

"Care to tell me how I ended up with a kill order from S.H.I.E.L.D.?" she asked instead. She kept her tone neutral, but only just. Something about the archer's informal manner and familiar tone rankled. And he'd called her _sweetheart_.

"Barcelona," he replied easily. "You took out one of ours."

She vaguely recalled being in Barcelona a year ago, laid out on a rooftop with a sniper rifle, but didn't remember seeing the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on that particular mission.

"He was protecting the Prime Minister," the archer prompted.

Ah, the asshole bodyguard who'd almost cost her the assassination. He must have been undercover. She'd been reprimanded, and none too gently, for needing a second shot to finish the job.

"He jumped in and took the bullet," she replied with a shrug. "He wasn't my mark."

The archer lifted an eyebrow.

"That doesn't get you off the hook. I'm still supposed to take you out."

Obviously. She didn't dignify that with a response.

"Who told you where to find me?" she tried next, curious as to just how much he'd give away without coercion.

"Classified."

"Was your contact passing information from inside the KGB?"

"Redacted."

He was smiling that stupid shit-eating grin and twanging his bowstring, and she realized too late her mistake. She was giving him everything, telling him what information he could use as leverage.

So maybe that was an overreaction. He didn't seem to have any ill intentions, other than to antagonize her for his own amusement, but that in itself was disconcerting. He was supposed to be appealing for a stay of execution, pissing himself out of fear, running as far and as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

"Blow up the car," she snapped, and ducked around him to stand in the middle of the alley. He was too self-assured, too cavalier. She hadn't sensed it at first beneath the banter and easy smiles, but he was dangerous. Should've shot him when she had the chance.

She got off three shots at the group from the car. The first two dropped a pair of gunmen, but the third glanced harmlessly off the hood of the car.

"Think you missed, sweetheart!"

She flattened herself against the alley wall and lifted a middle finger at the archer while the Germans returned her assault. He took his shot and the car jumped into the air as the arrow detonated; flames lit up the dark alley and the gas tank ignited with a second, much more concussive explosion.

Natalia wasn't entirely sure the fire had been intentional - the archer had frozen to watch with his bow half lowered - but the distraction served its purpose. The car flattened one assailant and she shot the remaining two before they remembered they were in the middle of a firefight.

She paused, muscles taut and one eye on the archer, waiting for another attack. No one appeared in the open window four floors up, the access door to the alley remained barricaded, and the only sound that reached her was the soft rush of flames as the car burned itself out.

She found herself unexpectedly torn about whether or not to turn her guns on the archer. They'd put up a surprisingly good fight together, outnumbered and outgunned, with the only real injury between them her sprained ankle.

But what could happen if she let him go? He had made it clear that he still intended to carry out his orders, calling her his mark and overlooking the fact that she hadn't killed the S.H.I.E.L.D agent on purpose. It had been so long since she'd fought with anyone who could keep up with her, she almost felt regret over the idea of taking him out.

She didn't have a choice. She'd get the information she needed from him and make his death quick. He'd earned that much respect, at least. She wouldn't draw it out unless he forced her.

She carefully slid her heels off for better traction in the snow, toes long since numb. She wanted the knife strapped to her leg, but couldn't think of a subtle way to hike the dress up and retrieve it. A gunshot at this range would cause more damage than she wanted to inflict at the moment. Hand-to-hand first, and she'd use the knife if she needed to inspire a little cooperation.

"Not bad, Red," the archer called appreciatively. She watched as he stretched his left arm up and rolled his shoulder. She'd found her weak point.

She was on him before her failure to reply registered. She gripped his wrist and kicked out his knees from behind, wrenching his arm up and back as he fell. She even managed to glance his head against the corner of the dumpster. She rolled him and pinned him, his left arm stuck awkwardly behind his back but the shoulder decidedly _not_ dislocated, despite her best effort.

He glared up at her with slightly glazed eyes, blood sliding from his hairline as he tried to shake off the hit.

"Now," she began sweetly, gun pressed beneath his chin, "you're going to tell me who's been passing you information."

"Fuck you," he snarled. Something in his expression shifted. His eyes cleared and went a shade darker, the mouth that had been so quick to smile curled into a sneer at one corner. She felt him tense beneath her. She hadn't seen the man S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent to kill her, until now.

She fired a warning shot into the ground near his head. He winced a little, but otherwise remained stoic. She hadn't really expected such an elementary intimidation tactic to work.

"Try again," she suggested.

"Tarasov," he said quietly. He relaxed, shoulders sagging, but she was too well-trained to buy the ruse of him giving up. "Just Tarasov. Didn't catch his first name."

The name meant nothing to her, but it was possible the man held a lower position than her in the organization. Or it was possible the archer had made it up.

"Anyone else?" she asked. She expected him to pull the same trick as before, giving up the first answer easily only to hold out on subsequent questions, but he surprised her.

"Dmitriyev."

Oh, he _really_ surprised her. Shock rippled through her chest, unpleasant and sharp. She hadn't expected her handler's name to be next on his list of informants. He shouldn't know any names at all, only code names and aliases. She gripped a handful of his collar and pulled him closer.

"You're lying," she told him, searching his face for a tell, a tic, any hint that he wasn't being truthful. The implications of her handler being allied with S.H.I.E.L.D...

"I'm lying," he agreed. He smirked and smashed his forehead against hers.

Pain blinded her for a long moment; she felt the archer push her away and heard his boots scrape against the ice and gravel as he scrambled to his feet. She bit back a pained noise and forced her eyes open. He was standing over her, bow raised in his right hand with one of her guns gripped in his left. He swung the bow down in an arc, aiming for her head, but she rolled away and plunged a hand under her dress for the knife.

How did he keep catching her off guard? And why hadn't either of them managed to kill the other yet? She had the skills, and he was obviously more than capable, so why had they been dancing around the inevitable for the past half-hour?

He swung the bow again, but this time she sprang forward to meet the assault. She dodged around the bow and under his arm, bringing the knife up for a quick, precise slash.

She darted a safe distance away and watched the realization set it. His scandalized expression only lasted a moment before he masked the emotion, but the way he stared a beat too long at the severed bowstring was enough reward. She shot him a triumphant little smile and twirled her knife.

If she could infuriate him enough, she knew from experience, his attacks would turn sloppy and she'd be at an advantage. It was the only tactic that came to mind. She wasn't accustomed to being evenly matched in the field.

He lifted the gun and she spun away, ducking behind the dumpster as he fired two quick rounds into the brick of the alley. She had a suspicion that he still wasn't trying to kill her; so far he hadn't missed a shot, and she didn't see any reason for him to be less accurate with a gun than a bow. Maybe he was venting his frustration by wasting her bullets.

She peeked around the corner of the dumpster, immediately pulling back as a third shot pinged off the metal. She moved to the opposite end and presented a target again; there was only one round left in the gun. The last shot went wide, driving into the snow, and she charged. He tossed the gun away and ran to meet her.

_Again_ he'd caught her off guard. Natalia realized, too late, that he'd been trying to draw her out, letting her think she held the advantage. Who the fuck had trained the archer?

She came up short and dropped into a defensive stance, blocking his jabs and kicks and slashing with her knife. She landed a few decent hits, a solid kick to the ribs and another to the kidney, without getting any new bruises herself. The knife held him off, until it didn't. He took a shallow cut to the chest, but pushed in close enough to grab her wrist and force her back against the wall, where he leered down at her, panting and bleeding.

"Drop it," he ground out, and when she didn't comply he slammed her wrist against the brick until she let the knife fall to the ground.

She hadn't felt real fear on a mission in years. She always had a way out, a new trick, weapons hidden in inconspicuous places. She wasn't accustomed to running into adversaries who could match her skill-for-skill.

As she looked up at the archer, all cold grey eyes and solid muscle, she thought perhaps she understood how her marks felt at the end. That instant when she let the cover slip, became the Black Widow, and ended them. Had the archer's persona in the beginning been a mask? She'd certainly been taken in. It was so easy to judge him as an idiot for blowing their missions, laugh at the bow and arrows. He was so damn _likeable_.

A reflection of firelight from the burning car, a faint glimmer in the snow, caught her attention. Her second gun.

She didn't like to fight dirty, but the archer hadn't left her much choice.

She drove a knee into his crotch and slammed the heel of her hand against his nose. He crumpled and she ran, scooping up the gun and turning back only once she'd reached the relative safety of the fire. She paused for a moment, watching the archer struggle to gain his feet, listening to his incoherent swearing.

When he finally looked up, saw her silhouetted in the flames, she'd shoot him.

Or she could forget the stupid theatrics and get the fuck out of there before he pinned her down again. She considered the situation from another angle. If accidentally killing one S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had set the archer on her, what would purposefully killing an agent of his caliber earn her? Not a question she wanted answered.

She moved into the street and headed north toward the brighter, friendlier part of the city. Ride the Metro, lose herself in crowds, shake the archer and get out of Germany. She couldn't go back to her hotel room; he probably knew where she'd been staying. She'd have to make do with five bullets, no shoes, and a dress that suggested she was open for business. Not the worst situation she'd found herself in, to be honest.

She stuck to the slush on the side of the street rather than the snowy sidewalk, so as not to leave footprints. He could track her, no doubt about that, but why should she make it easy? For all his skill, the archer could still be outsmarted. She'd just have to actually _try_ on this one. It wasn't easy to admit, but perhaps she'd gotten a tiny bit complacent with her training. When was the last time a mission presented a real challenge?

She paused after what she judged to be an adequate distance, about two miles, and observed the quiet stretch of street. She wasn't as familiar with Munich as she'd like, and quite frankly was a little puzzled why she hadn't found the Metro station yet.

She moved on slowly, shivering now with spent adrenaline and cold, reading street names and shop windows to try and orient herself.

An arrow landed with a muffled _whump_ in the snow at her feet.

She didn't visibly flinch, but blood began to pound heavy in her ears as she traced the trajectory of the arrow with her eyes.

"Think you missed!" she called, throwing the archer's taunt back at him as she scanned the opposite rooftop for a shadow or sign of movement. Nothing caught her eye, but she raised the gun anyway. He was up there somewhere. He'd make a mistake and show her his location, if she was patient.

Pain lanced down her leg and she staggered, surprise overriding her training and bringing the gun down to aim at the pavement instead of the rooftop. She found an arrow - it wasn't really an arrow - stuck in her thigh. The shaft was short, no more than six inches, and ended in four thin prongs, which had embedded themselves in her leg. Protruding from the middle of the shaft was an impossibly small needle.

_Shit._

She spun wildly and spotted him. The son-of-a-bitch and his bow were across the street, slightly behind and to the right, the complete opposite of where she expected him to be.

She pulled the arrow out, wincing at the sharp pain that pulsed down her leg, and ran. She made it halfway down the block before the street swung to one side and she found herself on her hands and knees, breathing hard through an uncomfortable wave of nausea.

_Focus, Natalia._

She forced herself back to her feet, shaking and dizzy, one hand braced against a brick storefront as she struggled away from the archer. The leg he'd shot had gone numb.

It didn't make sense, how the first arrow clearly came from up high and in front but then he was behind her. A second archer? An illusion? A trick shot? Nobody was that good.

She went down again, still more frustrated than afraid. Her vision blurred heavily for a moment before resolving.

If S.H.I.E.L.D sent another agent after her, she'd take that one out, too.

Decision made, she pushed up on one elbow and fired a shot toward the archer. Glass shattered nearby, and he advanced slowly down the middle of the street, unaffected. She blinked hard and took two more shots as he passed under a street lamp. His silhouette stretched long with the light behind him and he kept walking, slow and steady, as if he had the rest of the night to reach her.

Realistically, she knew she'd been neutralized.

Why hadn't he killed her yet? He could have completed his mission ten times over by now.

Her vision blurred again and the archer split into three dark forms, wavering and shimmering as they advanced. She made another stubborn, ineffectual attempt to run, dragging herself through the snow on hands and knees as the archer watched. She hadn't taken him for the sadistic type, the kind to watch his mark die a protracted death by poison. Whatever had been in the needle was more than a sedative, she felt sure, and it was catching up to her.

The street and buildings took on a dreamlike quality, jumping and blurring as her head spun. Her focus faded until she found herself laying curled in the snow, unsure why anxiety was choking her and making her finger twitch on the trigger of her gun.

Movement caught her attention and she turned glazed eyes to watch the archer, a dark presence drawing progressively closer until he stood over her. She tried again to lift the Glock and put a bullet through him, but her arm had gone numb and there was a muffled ringing in her ears, and suddenly the gun wasn't in her hand anymore. He straddled her and forced her wrists together, and she watched dazedly as he tied her hands with a length of thin cord. Bowstring, she realized, and felt sick.

He pinned her bound wrists above her head with an exasperated huff and leaned in close, his breath hot and sticky as he panted above her. Blood smeared his forehead, ran freely across his lips and down his chin from a broken nose. A cruel smile twisted his lips and his teeth were smeared with blood too.

Raw panic rose in her chest and she renewed her escape attempts, writhing ineffectually beneath him. He gripped her jaw and forced her to look at him, his eyes unnaturally black and predatory, blood dripping steadily from his chin to her chest and burning her skin, and some small lucid part of her mind whispered that it was just the drugs, the archer wasn't _this_ , but the rational voice faded and was replaced with a high-pitched whimper and echos of _please_ and _nyet_ , weaknesses she recognized as her own voice and couldn't seem to stop.

His words were a dark growl in her ear as the drugs dragged her under.

"I don't miss, sweetheart."

_..._


	3. I Liked You Better Unconscious

"Natalia?"

A hand rested heavily on her shoulder and she flinched, instinctively bracing for a hit that never came. Anxiety coiled in her stomach. Fingers on her throat, but they didn't squeeze and restrict her breathing, only lingered firmly for a moment. The hand moved to stroke her hair.

"Natalia."

The hands and the voice were gentle, a novelty. She felt warm and at the same time felt nothing at all. Nothing hurt, no injuries to catalog. Tentatively, experimentally, she relaxed and leaned into the soft touch. A little contented sigh slipped out before she could stop it. She didn't feel threatened. She could sleep again.

"Uh-uh, not going there."

The hand pulled away, taking some measure of warmth with it. Her head throbbed dully.

"Wake up, right now."

An order, more familiar. Consequences usually followed if she ignored an order.

It was a monumental effort, but she pulled back from the allure of more sleep and forced her eyes open. When her vision cleared she found herself on a sofa, covered with a fleece blanket, her left ankle propped up high and wrapped in an Ace bandage.

Odd. When was the last time anyone had taken care of her injuries, much less thought to throw a blanket over her?

"Hey."

She turned toward the source of the voice and caught a quick glimpse of the man who had spoken. The room started spinning and bile rose in her throat; she swallowed hard and breathed deep, pressing her eyes closed until the sensation passed. When she felt steady enough, she tried opening her eyes again.

The room was mostly blurred, faint outlines of furniture in the shadows and a dim glow from a lamp in the corner. The man was sat on a low table directly in front of her, dried blood in his hair and a bruise shadowing his left eye, his nose swollen and apparently broken. He waited patiently while she searched his face and struggled to remember; she watched his eyebrows draw together and his forehead wrinkle as he stared back.

She noticed little aches now, the bandaged ankle and her leg and forearm, and her body began to feel heavy. Her head pounded harder. What hell had they been through?

He reached out a hand, slowly, and she recoiled without quite knowing why. His hand dropped and rested on his knee instead.

"Do you know where we are?"

It was beginning to concern her, the not knowing.

Apartment? Hotel? He probably wanted her to say a city or country, but she couldn't seem to think of any. She could hear guns and see fire and feel snow, but none of it coalesced into anything meaningful.

"Barcelona," she said at last, as the man's voice echoed the same in her mind, although the context escaped her. Her tongue felt thick, her words oddly slurred and heavily accented.

"Oh, God," he groaned, and raked a hand through his hair. He stood and began walking the strip of carpet between the table and sofa. "That shit fried her brain. Nice fucking job, Barton."

Watching him pace made her feel sick and dizzy again. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillows.

" _Nonono_ , come on, try again."

He gave her shoulder an insistent little shake.

"Moscow," she mumbled into the pillow. Familiar, but something told her it wasn't right.

"Close. One more time. Mmmm...?"

The humming grated on her nerves, even though she realized he was trying to be nice and give her a hint. Her mind wanted to remember, but she was too slow to catch the little shimmers of memory. She settled for running through every M city in Europe, in alphabetical order, because maybe the exercise would jump start her brain.

_Madrid, Manchester, Marseille._

She'd missed some.

_Milan, Minsk, Monaco._

Not Moscow, Moscow was wrong.

"Munich," she said aloud, lifting her head as a tiny piece of the puzzle slid into place.

She had a quick glimpse of guns and passports and a thick file stamped with Cyrillic script. A mission.

"Bingo!" the man exclaimed happily. He dropped down to sit on the table again. "Give the lady a prize."

" _Bozhe moi_ , shut up," she growled. That annoying feeling, the sensation that everything waited just out of reach, intensified.

They didn't give her partners. She hadn't been trained to work with a partner. Slowly, carefully, she rolled over to stare at him again. The room didn't spin this time.

She could clearly see the man in her mind's eye, firing arrows and covering her. Why arrows?

_Think you missed, sweetheart._

The way he delivered the term of endearment, not as a term of endearment at all, but sarcastic and with a slight mocking edge to his tone...

_I don't miss, sweetheart._

Her memory resolved in a rush that immediately eased her headache. The archer blowing her mission and matching her skill for skill, his stupid banter and cocky idiot smile, and the altogether less pleasant side of his personality, the man who had watched as she dragged herself through the snow and fired desperate rounds from her gun. The realization must have showed in her expression, because his eyes went wide.

"Easy," he whispered, cautiously raising his hands in the universal gesture for surrender. "You're okay."

She flexed her wrists and felt the length of bowstring cut into her skin, a faint uncomfortable pressure, the pain dulled by the drugs still working through her bloodstream. He was close, too close to pass up the opportunity.

She laced her fingers and clenched her hands together, threw off the blanket, and swung for his broken nose. He blocked with his arm and caught her under the elbow with his free hand to save her falling off the couch.

Her equilibrium was off, everything tilted weirdly to the right. Attacking him now was impulsive and sloppy, she realized that, but he was _right there_ and she should still be able to take him out.

"Feel better now?" he asked, one eyebrow arched and an amused grin playing across his lips. "Got it out of your system?"

Fuck him.

She lunged and went for a bite, missed, and settled instead for throwing herself off the couch to tackle him. The table flipped and they slid off backwards to land in a heap on the floor.

She felt like vomiting again, her vision blurring and an odd ringing in her ears, but she squeezed her eyes shut to ward off the feeling and hooked her arm around his neck. She'd choke him out. Once she had him unconscious - _not unconscious, kill him, he should be dead_ \- she could get the hell out and regroup, find somewhere safe to sleep off the rest of the drugs.

Her efforts seemed to be working in reverse. The sensation of his fingers scrabbling against her arm grew fainter until she felt numb again. She woke shivering with her cheek pressed into the musty carpet.

Only a moment of confusion this time before she recalled the who and where and why of her situation. Well, the why was still lost on her. She should be dead. She shouldn't have woken up at all, much less wrapped in a blanket with her ankle taken care of.

She pushed up on her elbows and searched the room for the archer; he stood a safe distance away, lingering in the shadows behind her, rubbing his throat with one hand and breathing a bit harder than normal. She hadn't been out that long, then.

 _Almost had him,_ she chastised herself. It wouldn't be so easy to surprise him next time. He had underestimated her because of the drugs, but his guard was up now. She'd have to fight dirty again.

"Hey, you need to take it easy," he warned.

She ignored him, moving slowly to avoid making the room spin. She drew her knees up and pressed her palms flat against the carpet, intending to stand and attack, but even that small effort left her lightheaded and panting.

"I fixed your arm earlier. I need to look and see if we pulled the stitches. Is that okay?"

Why should she have stitches?

She stared blankly down at her arms, surprised to find that her dress had vanished, replaced instead with a grey pullover and, when she looked back to investigate further, a pair of too-large plaid sleeping pants. Her forearm did sting, and after a moment she recalled the archer shooting the window out in the hotel room, pulling a piece of glass from her arm, although she hadn't bothered to give the injury a second thought.

Anger flared sharp and hot in her chest, not because he'd taken the liberty of undressing her, but because he had the audacity to take care of her at all. His mission was to kill, not capture and interrogate. Besides, it didn't make sense to sew up your mark's wounds and wrap sprains. Open cuts and inflamed joints were an advantage in an interrogation, easy points to inflict pain without causing excessive damage. The archer should know better.

"Okay," she agreed quietly. She watched him over her shoulder, avoided tensing her muscles while he drew closer so she wouldn't give herself away. She threw him the wide-eyed, pouty expression she usually saved for missions.

"It's okay," he intoned, well within range now. He offered a soft, reassuring smile.

She lashed out, thrusting her right leg up and out with all the force she could manage, aiming for his crotch.

Her kick fell low, reflexes slower than she'd anticipated; her foot only skimmed the inside of his thigh and he caught her ankle firmly with both hands, jerking her leg up at an awkward angle and forcing her onto her back. A little trace of anger flashed behind his eyes as he glared down at her.

"Swear to God, one more nut shot and I'll break your leg," he threatened.

She seriously doubted it.

She twisted to the right and kicked with her left this time. As expected, he dropped her ankle and jumped out of range with a scowl.

"Liar," she taunted.

"You're just _mean_ ," he shot back disbelievingly. "Could you maybe not be a terrible person for five minutes?"

"You drugged me, tied me up, and now you're holding me hostage," she countered. What did he expect?

"Okay, first, it was supposed to be a tranquilizer dart," he began, a slight defensive edge to his tone. "R&D didn't tell me what was in the damn thing, and it was for my next mission so I hadn't read the dossier yet. I had it on me and it seemed like a good idea. I didn't know it was some kind of neuro-hallucinogenic-toxin-shit, so...sorry. Second, I tied you up because you _never stop fighting_. I didn't want my ass kicked again."

"I still kicked your ass," she pointed out.

"That's open for debate, since all you accomplished was passing out on the floor. And you're not a hostage."

"This is what I do to my hostages." She held up her bound hands to demonstrate. "I feel like a hostage."

"Well, you're not. I just want to talk."

What could they possibly have to talk about? His motivation was lost on her. He hadn't fought back, hadn't even restrained her thoroughly. He didn't seem to want intel, or names, or locations of KGB bases. His lack of interest puzzled her and made her head throb.

He approached again, slowly and cautiously, and this time she couldn't find the energy to lash out. What was the point, with her reflexes too dulled to be effective? She slid back to lean against the overturned table instead, and watched relief flit across his features once he made the connection that he'd finally worn her down.

"Clint Barton," he said. He crouched down in front of her and stuck out a hand. She turned away and fixed her gaze stubbornly on the lamp in the corner. He had her at a temporary disadvantage, but that didn't mean she was required to make friends.

" _Mean_ ," he repeated emphatically, but he smiled as he said it and she felt sure he didn't take offense at her refusing his introduction. "Can I check your arm?"

She chewed her lip and considered him. His hands had been both surprisingly gentle and violent enough to leave bruises. She had no reason to trust him, but aside from drugging her and running her down in the street, she didn't have a reason not to trust him, either. God, she was tired.

"Fine," she agreed, and held out her arms. He hesitated, clearly still suspicious, but when she didn't immediately wallop him he scooted closer and sat beside her.

"If you'd calm down, I'd untie you," he said. One hand closed firmly over her wrists, over the bowstring, while the other pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She didn't believe him. He could bargain and bribe all he wanted, but she recognized skill when she saw it, and skilled assassins didn't untie their marks.

"You took my dress," she accused, watching with wary eyes as he pulled the bandage back. A surprisingly neat row of sutures held together the cut from the broken glass.

"You were about two minutes away from hypothermic," he replied. "Had to do something."

"Why?"

His hands stilled, confusion clouding his features.

"Why didn't I leave you to freeze to death in the street?"

"You were supposed to kill me," she reminded him. "You don't seem to want to get your hands dirty, so that's as good a way as any other."

"That's not how you take out a mark," he replied shortly. Apparently satisfied with the state of the stitches, he taped the bandage back down and pushed himself to his feet. "Not how _I_ take out marks, anyway."

_Oh, well, Mr. Moral Compass._

She rolled her eyes.

"So dragging them home to your shitty hotel room is somehow more efficient?"

"It's an apartment. We're in a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house."

 _Seriously_? She didn't bother to mask her incredulous expression. Clint Barton: unmitigated idiot. Who brought their mark straight into their safe house? He might have been serious about untying her, after all.

"Someone's going to be pissed at you," she guessed. Barton shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.

"Someone at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s always pissed at me. Come on, back on the couch."

He reached down to help her up, and there was no point pretending she couldn't use the extra support. She let him pull her to her feet, surprised when he took most of her weight and brought her up slowly. He gave her a moment to steady herself, then braced one arm around her shoulders.

She ran through a series of possible escape attempts as they covered the stretch of carpet to the sofa - sweep his legs, break his arm, smash his nose again - but nothing struck her as very promising. The glimpse of the city through the gap in the curtains told her they were five, maybe six, stories up. She'd probably kill herself trying to make it down the stairs, and Barton would just catch her anyway.

He didn't dump her unceremoniously back on the sofa as she expected, but carefully lowered her down to lean against the stack of pillows at one end. Bed pillows, she realized, and they smelled like him, leather and sweat and spicy aftershave. How long had he been camped out in the safe house?

She studied him intently, trying to determine his motivation. Safe houses were supposed to be in-and-out locations, not long term operation bases. She added it to Barton's list of presumably broken protocols. It didn't make what he was attempting to accomplish any clearer.

He threw the blanket across her lap, then hooked his arm under her knees and swung her legs up.

"You're a really terrible assassin," she told him. "S.H.I.E.L.D. should fire you."

"Yeah? Look where you landed yourself, sweetheart." He grinned and shoved a throw pillow under her ankle. "What's the KGB penalty for blowing an op?"

He was joking, but the idea made her feel nauseous again. The consequences of screwing up a mission were endurable if unpleasant, but once they found out she'd been taken in and held by an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D...

She shuddered and drew her knees up, clenched her hands into fists to stop them shaking. She was usually left to her own devices on missions, but there were eyes everywhere. Her handlers would hear about the archer and her weakness in not killing him, and most importantly they would know that she spent time alone with him, presumably being interrogated but possibly playing double agent.

They'd tear her apart trying to learn if she passed him information. Automatic wipe and reprogramming. She wouldn't get lucky enough to resist and make it out again. Last time had only been a fluke.

She let the thin sliver of hope she'd been childish enough to harbor for the past eighteen months slip away. Barton undoubtedly had her flash drive - that dress kept her tits pressed so tightly together there was no way she'd lost it fighting or rolling around in the snow - but there wasn't much point stealing it back from him. Best to resign herself to the inevitable now. Escaping the Red Room's influence had been an impossible idea.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"What is this?" she asked bluntly.

The tiny glimmer of another impossible idea came to her. S.H.I.E.L.D had whole teams of scientists and doctors. S.H.I.E.L.D. had secret locations and bunkers and security protocols the KGB had never been able to pin down or crack. If they couldn't find her, they couldn't wipe her.

Clint Barton wanted something from her, and once she found out what it was, she'd bargain her way into a S.H.I.E.L.D. holding facility. It wouldn't be difficult to convince him to take her in, especially since he seemed so averse to putting an arrow through her.

"Mission's over, okay?" He flipped the coffee table upright and sat again. "I've read your file, I've been shadowing you for two weeks, and I don't think you deserve the kill order."

She deserved that kill order a hundred times over. They both knew it. The fact that he'd been following her for a fortnight didn't surprise her as much as it should have.

"Look, I just want to talk. Why don't we have a truce? No fighting, no super-spy manipulation, we'll just be honest with each other. I might not tell you everything, but what I tell you will be the truth. Deal?"

Sure, that made him sound completely trustworthy.

"So you'll lie by omission," she guessed.

" _No_. Shit, Coulson made this look easy." He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and made an exasperated growling sound.

"Made _what_ look easy?" she asked, half amused.

"Recruitment," he replied. "I want you to join S.H.I.E.L.D."

She openly gaped at him, sure that this was usually done with a little more finesse than just tossing an offer on the table. If he wanted her to come back with him so badly, maybe she didn't want to use S.H.I.E.L.D. as a sanctuary after all.

" _S.H.I.E.L.D._ doesn't want me to join S.H.I.E.L.D.," she reminded him. "S.H.I.E.L.D. wants me dead, remember?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. felt that way about me once, too. Just talk to me, please?"

Maybe if her head was clearer, if she wasn't so bone-weary and exhausted, he'd be dead. She couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but _goddammit_ , she trusted him. Partially, at least. She was so desperate for a way out, anything looked better than the alternative.

Still, she couldn't afford to be reckless. She averted her eyes and struggled to organize her thoughts, formulate a line of questioning to ascertain his motives. It was an elementary exercise that should have taken her all of fifteen seconds, but working through a possible line of questioning, imagining his answers, and thinking of ways to manipulate him seemed to be beyond her. She felt slow and stupid, her focus sharp one moment and drifting the next.

"What did you mean when you said you wouldn't tell me everything?" she asked at last. Straightforward wasn't the tactical way to go, but it made the situation less frustrating.

He sat a little straighter and visibly brightened, apparently encouraged by her interest.

"I can't tell you the really classified stuff, and I know you'll ask the pain-in-the-ass questions I'm not cleared to answer. Then you'll get all suspicious and kick my butt again."

"I'm already suspicious," she assured him.

"Then it's my job to make you not-suspicious."

He stood and crossed to a chair by the window, retrieving a black duffel bag. It hit the table with a surprisingly solid _thunk_. She watched him rummage for a moment before he pulled out a manilla file embossed with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo and 'Level 4'.

"Here," he said, and thrust a sheet of thick white paper under her nose. "This is what I injected you with."

It was filled with chemical formulas, the names of several different compounds stretching across the page in a jumble of letters that made her head ache. She recognized a couple, most were foreign to her, and there were a few she felt sure S.H.I.E.L.D. had concocted in their lab specifically for Barton's next mission. She'd been trained extensively in the use and recognition of poisons and sedatives, and could usually figure out a compound's function by its chemical makeup, but her mind was largely blank as she skimmed the muddle of letters and numbers.

"This doesn't make sense right now," she admitted, and passed the paper back. If he was attempting to build rapport, she grudgingly conceded, he was off to a good start.

"The point is, there was a lot of nasty shit in that arrowhead. Sit there and rest until it works through your system," he ordered gently. "I want to do this right. I don't want you to agree to anything if you're still out of it."

There was a catch somewhere, and he definitely wanted something. Nobody was that nice. If their roles were reversed, she'd use the opportunity to badger ever piece of S.H.I.E.L.D. intel she could from him while his defenses were down.

"If I go to the kitchen, will you stay?" Barton asked. She watched intently as he slid the paper back into the file, but didn't manage to glimpse anything interesting. "I'll still be able to see you."

"Fine," she agreed. He stuck the file back in the bag and pulled out a second identical one.

"You can read this while I'm gone. It's Level 6, but you probably know all the stuff in there, anyway."

She could guess what was in the file, but took it and flipped it open just to be sure. Several grainy black-and-white photos fell into her lap, the shots off center and some blurred. If she tilted her head, they sort of looked like her.

"This is the best S.H.I.E.L.D. could do?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"You're hard to pin down," he shrugged. "I'm the first one who's been able to stay on you for more than ten minutes at a time."

She took it as a compliment, and also a testament to the shoddy training S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently found acceptable.

Barton kept one eye on her as he went to the kitchen. He flipped the light and she saw that the kitchen was only separated from the rest of the apartment by a bar.

"Stay," he warned one final time, before turning his back and opening a pair of cabinets.

She considered making a break for it just to piss him off, but the allure of the S.H.I.E.L.D. file won out in the end. If they knew something important and she missed her opportunity because she was playing stupid games with Clint Barton... Well, she'd been trained better than that.

The first page was a surprisingly accurate set of statistics. They knew her birthday and height and weight, give or take a few inches and pounds, they had an incomplete list of languages she spoke, another list of combat and martial arts styles she was proficient in, and a short column detailing her preferred weapons. She flipped to the second page and skimmed a chronological list of assassinations, infiltrations, and undercover jobs S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to think she had committed. There were more than a few gaps in their intel there, and one incorrectly attributed bombing in Kiev. The kill order Barton had referenced was an actual signed piece of paper - _Nicholas J Fury, Director_ \- and endorsed with the World Security Council seal. That was the meat of the file, she supposed, but she found what she was looking for in the very back.

Three pages, stapled in one corner and printed front-and-back, detailing the Red Room's training program. It wasn't as thorough as she'd been stupid enough to hope. There was only one brief sentence under the heading Mind Control: _Operatives possibly subjected to methods of reprogramming to ensure compliance_.

Well, they weren't wrong.

She leered down at the file, fighting back the impulse to fling it across the room for its uselessness.

"Find anything interesting?"

She startled and glanced sharply up to find Barton standing at the foot of the sofa, a steaming ceramic mug in each hand. The fact that he'd managed to sneak up on her unnerved her, but she blamed it on the drugs dulling her reflexes.

"Your intel's shit," she replied, and tossed the file on the table.

"Correction, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel is shit. _My_ intel is flawless." He held out one of the mugs, inviting her to take it. He gave her that infuriatingly cocky smile again, all smug and self-assured. "Breakfast tea, milk and three teaspoons of sugar. I think you've underestimated my surveillance skills."

Anxiety constricted her chest, but she forced the feeling down. Barton excelled at his job, he was dangerous, and it was an easy thing to forget when his attitude and mannerisms were so relaxed. Of course he'd been observing closely enough to learn how she liked her tea. What worried her was that she hadn't once realized he was watching.

"Close enough," she returned coolly, even though he was completely right. She reached forward to take the mug but he pulled it back and set both drinks on the table instead. He drew a knife from the black bag, and when she tensed, he huffed an exasperated sigh.

"I'm untying you," he informed her, and sat beside her on the sofa, one hand held out for her wrists. "And I'm probably going to regret it."

She held still while he slid the knife between her hands and under the bowstring. It would take approximately three seconds to disarm him and drive the knife into his chest, but that wasn't the way to go anymore. There was a miniscule possibility she might accept his offer and tag along back to S.H.I.E.L.D., and she'd have to play nice. Killing him would get her into a holding facility, but freedom to come and go as she pleased was more appealing. It would be easier to leave once she got the help she wanted from them.

He worked the knife back and forth until the bowstring snapped, then gently peeled the cord away. The skin underneath was rubbed raw, but not broken or bleeding. She jerked her hands away and shoved them in the front pocket of his pullover.

"You're welcome," he said, not unkindly, but obviously expecting a little gratitude. Being friendly with him still seemed like a stretch, so she kept her mouth shut.

When she remained stubbornly silent he tossed the knife back in the bag and lifted his mug from the coffee table.

"So. You know my mission. What were you trying to accomplish tonight?"

"Classified," she shrugged, and retrieved her tea. Heat radiated from the mug, just shy of burning her fingers. She ignored the nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her it was probably poisoned and took a cautious sip. It scorched her tongue, but was otherwise perfect.

"What's on this?" Barton asked, and held up her flash drive.

"Nothing that concerns you," she replied in a tone of forced calm. She curled into the corner of the sofa, legs folded to one side as she sipped her tea again and pretended not to watch him. He frowned and slid the flash drive into the front pocket of his jeans.

"Look, I'm trying to make conversation here. You've got to give me something. You agreed to talk."

"No, you said that _you_ wanted to talk. So talk. My part of the deal was to stop actively trying to murder you."

He made a frustrated, disgusted noise and slid away to the opposite end of the sofa, where he quietly seethed and drank his coffee. The silence stretched until he put his empty mug back on the table with a soft clunk. When he spoke, his voice was calm, no hint of the earlier irritation seeping into the words.

"Why didn't you kill Drechsler three nights ago?" She watched him from the corner of her eye, but her mug was empty too and she couldn't use tea as an excuse to ignore him. "The street was clear, no witnesses besides his wife and kid. You could've taken out all three in an instant."

"Why didn't you kill me three nights ago?" she countered. She felt more alert now, her mind sharper and focused, less foggy. Almost confident enough to work through the S.H.I.E.L.D. recruitment conversation. "The timing was off," she added grudgingly, because he _had_ been nice where he didn't have to be. "Tonight was better."

"Bullshit. Tell me why, Natalia."

She had a decision to make. If she wanted in with S.H.I.E.L.D., the truth would probably win him over. The truth would also make her seem weak and vulnerable. Barton wasn't scared of her, anyway.

"His daughter," she said, and couldn't help the little trace of venom that slipped into her tone. She was still irritated that the girl had prevented her making the kill. "She didn't need to see her father shot."

Barton smiled, and she immediately regretted answering his stupid questions.

"That's why I didn't take you out tonight. It wasn't the Black Widow who spared Drechsler's family, it was Natalia, and I think she deserves a second chance."

"What if I don't want a second chance?" she asked coolly, and watched his expression go sour. He must have thought this was going to be easy.

"Oh, come on!" He launched himself off the sofa and began pacing, frustration evident behind his tone. "I was never happy doing this shit, dodging INTERPOL and the FBI and S.H.I.E.L.D., wondering if I'd get a bullet between the eyes before my next birthday or end up on death row."

"That's the difference between you and I. I don't need a second chance. The Black Widow doesn't get caught."

"Well wake up, sweetheart, because _I_ caught you. You lose, point for Hawkeye."

She opened her mouth to retaliate, but couldn't settle on a counter-argument. She had, in fact, lost this round.

"Hawkeye?" she asked instead.

"My code name." A little of the heat left his tone at her show of interest. "Like Black Widow, only way cooler. You've heard of Hawkeye," he added confidently.

"No, sorry."

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance and she stretched languidly across the sofa, biting her lip to hide a smile.

"I liked you better unconscious," he mumbled, and disappeared into the kitchen again. He returned with an entire pot of coffee and two bottles of water. He dumped the bottles in her lap and sat on the edge of the table, shoulders sagging.

He was still being nice, damn him. Why was he so nice?

For a moment she thought he intended to drink his coffee straight from the pot, but he shot her a glance and reasonably poured it into his mug instead. She rolled one of the bottles between her hands and considered him. It sounded as if S.H.I.E.L.D. had recruited him the same way he was trying to recruit her. Unlike Barton, she was perfectly happy evading enemy agencies and taking out whoever the KGB chose as her next mark, but she wasn't too fond of the whole Red Room reprogramming aspect of the job.

"What made S.H.I.E.L.D. want to recruit you?" she asked. He perked up and sat a little straighter, and okay, it wouldn't kill her to talk to him. Anyone else would have lost patience and put a bullet through her by now.

"Nothing," he answered with a wry little smile. "Coulson just felt sorry for me. I was this dumb kid, in way over my head. I mean, I had skills, but I wasn't really worth the risk."

She didn't quite believe that. Agencies like S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't waste resources taking in operatives if they didn't have potential to be assets.

"You want to tell the story," she guessed, and although it was supposed to be more a statement of fact than an invitation, he took it as the latter.

"If you're asking," he shrugged, and set his coffee aside. "I'd just turned nineteen, so dumb kid, like I said. I thought I knew who I worked for. They told me who needed an arrow through the heart, I made it happen. In return I got food and a place to sleep and something that sort of reminded me of a family. There was a mission one night, new shipment of munitions for a military base. Some warehouse in the middle of nowhere. The boss wanted it, we went in and took it.

"I was always up in the rafters on jobs like that, keeping watch and taking out guards. We tripped a silent alarm that night. Didn't realize it until we heard the helicopters and sirens. My team took an every-man-for-himself approach, so I had about thirty seconds to haul ass outside to the van. I fell out of the rafters instead, ended up with a broken leg. They didn't come back for me."

He paused, for effect, she supposed. His story probably drew the appropriate reaction from junior agents and new recruits, made them realize they should be grateful to work for an organization with fail-safes and protocols and superiors who would keep the team together on a mission.

"Dumb kid," she agreed. "That's why I don't work with partners."

He heaved a sigh and shook his head.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. tossed me in a containment cell for a couple weeks after that. One morning instead of breakfast, I got Coulson. He dragged a chair into my cell and listened. He's an easy guy to like, and I didn't have anything to lose, so when he asked I told him everything, from the beginning. He thought I deserved a second chance. He said sometimes good people do bad things, but that doesn't make you a bad person. Well, he made it sound more eloquent than that, but you get the idea.

"Later, when I asked how I could repay him, he said I should give someone else the same opportunity."

He gave her a pointed look and an encouraging smile. She had a brief moment of indignity over being Barton's charity case, but the situation seemed more complex than that. She'd been trained to know when she was being lied to, when she was being manipulated, and Clint Barton wasn't doing either. Underneath the combat skills, alarmingly accurate marksmanship, and an uncanny ability to stalk her every move, he was sincere and genuine. He didn't want anything from her, she realized now. He was helping because he was kind, because it was as much a part of his personality as the dogged determination he'd used to track her down.

"Killing is still killing, whether I'm doing it for the KGB or S.H.I.E.L.D.," she argued. It was unnerving, the way she felt she could trust him.

"That's what I thought, too. But it makes a difference."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't going to want me," she warned. "Not after I fill in the holes in your intel about the things I've done."

"Why not? You think the worst I ever did was lift a few rocket launchers?" He moved to sit beside her on the couch. The gesture was probably supposed to be comforting. "About a year before I got caught, I bombed three subway cars in Chicago. They didn't know who did it, but I confessed to Coulson before he signed off on my joining. He still took a chance on me, after I killed fourteen people and injured another two hundred. You just do more good to make up for it."

She pitied his naivety. She wished she didn't have a handful of trump cards to throw back at him.

"You can tell me the worst mission you can think of, and I promise I'll still bring you in, if you want to come."

He didn't mean it as a challenge, but a sick impulse burned deep in her chest and she immediately chose the story she wanted to give him in return. She didn't know what to do with Clint Barton, who seemed to believe everyone could be redeemed with the right opportunity. Once he saw her as she really was, what she was capable of, he'd give up on her, and it would serve her right for thinking even for a moment that he could save her.

There was too much Black Widow and not enough Natalia left. Being the Black Widow was safe, comfortable. She wasn't sure she could be as virtuous as Barton, atone for years upon years of unrestrained carnage, and she hated the thought of failing. She didn't need S.H.I.E.L.D.'s help, she could find someone else to undo the Red Room's programming.

"There was a politician," she began, and was suddenly grateful for the too-big sweatshirt and fuzzy blanket. Recalling that particular mission always left her feeling cold and hollow. "The KGB needed him as a pawn, but he wasn't easily bought or corrupted. He needed a demonstration. A lesson."

Barton shuffled to sit sideways on the sofa, facing her and leaning slightly forward, rapt with attention and curious. Naive. She could imagine his thoughts jumping to torture and coercion, unsavory methods but nothing too damning.

"He had a daughter. They hit her with a car, made sure he recognized the driver as the man who had tried to bribe him earlier. She wasn't killed," she added quickly, because Barton opened his mouth to interrupt. "They made contact again, their offer threats this time instead of money under the table. Again he refused."

Barton was leaning so far into her personal space she had a strong urge to shove him back. She was obviously the better storyteller.

"They sent me to the hospital two days later. I brought a gun and a silencer and went in during the nurses' shift change. The children's ward was bigger than I expected and I had to read the charts at the foot of the beds to find her."

_Viktor and Dimitri and Tanya and Irina._

She realized her hands were shaking; she jammed them in the front pocket of Barton's pullover to hide the weakness.

"I had a pillow pressed over her face, but my handler stopped me. He insisted I wear a comm unit that night. He said ' _She burns_.' Then he said ' _They all burn_.' It was a hospital, chemicals and accelerants everywhere, it wasn't difficult."

"You burned the entire children's ward?" he asked quietly. His fascination seemed to have waned a bit. She didn't care for the hard, judgmental gleam behind his eyes.

"Sometimes a mission's meant to be a test. That one was a test."

"So you passed?" he asked, although his tone gave it the weight of a statement rather than a question.

He probably wanted her to deny it, and for a brief instant she considered lying, although she couldn't understand why his opinion of her suddenly mattered. She could always give him the whole truth, explain how any hesitation on a mission like that would end with a reprimand and an immediate trip back to the compound where she'd spent her childhood for reconditioning. She could tell him that she _had_ hesitated, paused a moment too long before striking the match. She could tell him about that long week in a cold cell, having the idea of immediate compliance beaten back into her, how they tried to bury Natalia under the Black Widow once again but failed.

"What do you think?" she returned, and left him to come to his own conclusion.

"I think my offer's still on the table." His expression was grim, no more easy smiles. "Get some sleep, I'll keep watch. You can give me an answer in the morning."

He didn't speak to her again, just checked the door and flipped the lights and settled in the chair by the window. He twitched the curtain aside, and in the faint glow of city lights she could make out the deep frown still marring his features. She wished she hadn't told him about the fire.

...


	4. Bringing Home Strays

Natalia woke to sunlight burning her eyelids and breakfast smells and the noise of German announcers discussing a football match.

It was oddly domestic and almost pleasant, but the effect was ruined by a sinking feeling of dismay as she remembered the mess she'd gotten herself into. She had hoped a fourth option would manifest overnight, but she could still only see three ways out. First, bite the bullet and go back to her handlers, be interrogated and more than likely shipped off for reprogramming, and wait for another agent to be assigned her kill order. That one didn't hold much promise. Alternatively, lose herself somewhere in Europe, go underground, and hope the KGB didn't track her down. They'd track her down. Third option, Barton.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was far enough removed from her handlers to be safe, and they had the resources to undo the Red Room's programming. They would want intel in exchange for their help, but she wasn't bothered at the prospect of switching loyalties. She couldn't think of a single person in the KGB who deserved her protection or allegiance.

Even after his abrupt attitude change of the night before, the idea of following Clint Barton back to S.H.I.E.L.D. still held some appeal. If he wanted her, of course. She suspected he was simply too polite to rescind his offer. As far as she knew, he'd spent the entire night brooding in the chair by the window. He was still at it when she gave in and fell asleep after a long hour of observing him. Despite his declaration that he would take her in, she knew too well how many opportunities a night of keeping watch offered to think and reconsider.

She was mindful that the entire plan could still fall apart. Best to assume she would be on her own, running from the KGB, until she was on a plane to a S.H.I.E.L.D. base.

She rolled over with the intent to sit up and find Barton, but immediately regretted the action. Her entire body ached, joints stiff and injuries far more noticeable than the night before. Her head began to throb again.

She made an unintelligible sound, half frustrated and half pained, and flipped the hood of her pullover up to block the sun and noise.

"You'll have to get up if you want food," Barton called. She was surprised to find his tone perfectly friendly again. "I'm not doing breakfast in bed."

She heard something sizzle and snap as it hit the frying pan and determined that Barton was responsible for breakfast. He was probably responsible for the sunlight streaming into the room and the obnoxious television, too.

She called him an asshole in three different languages and felt a bit better.

"Authentic German sausages," he taunted when she didn't move. "Coffee? I went out and got pastries from the bakery around the corner, still hot."

She had a suspicion that he would, in fact, bring her something if she held out long enough - he hadn't carried her in from the snow and taken care of her injuries to let her starve now - but her stomach rumbled and ached, and she wasn't about to pass up a decent breakfast spread just to make Barton eat his words.

She stretched and methodically flexed sore muscles until moving seemed manageable, then peeked carefully from under her hood and blankets. When the light didn't make her head worse, she pushed the blanket away and sat.

"Morning, sweetheart," Barton teased.

"I'm not your sweetheart," she warned, but couldn't summon the appropriate amount of venom behind her tone. He slid a cup of coffee and a plate piled high with breakfast across the bar. She couldn't really be mad at someone cooking for her. "Natalia's fine," she added grudgingly.

"Morning, Nat," he amended, and offered a lopsided grin.

God, he was insufferable. She narrowed her eyes in annoyance, sure that he was being purposefully irritating.

"Hey, you look like you want to kill me again," Barton pointed out brightly. He turned and began loading a second plate with food. "Must be feeling better?"

"Better than last night, anyway," she agreed coolly, and threw him an accusatory glance.

"Aw, come on, I made breakfast to apologize. And I swear to never shoot you with another arrow. Scout's honor or whatever."

He lifted one hand in a sloppy military salute and gave her what he obviously thought was a winning smile.

"I'm withholding forgiveness until I taste your cooking," she informed him.

She rolled her ankle and winced a little, but pushed up from the couch anyway and took a few tentative steps toward the kitchen. Barton studied her intently for a moment, but when it became clear she wasn't going to collapse he slid up to sit on the counter opposite the bar and speared a sausage with his fork.

His face was an interesting mottle of black and purple bruises, she noticed with a faint twinge of pride, as she hoisted herself up on one of the barstools. He wasn't sitting quite straight, listing to one side instead, and she recalled the two solid kicks she'd landed to his ribs. Weaknesses worth noting in case her recruitment didn't go quite as planned. He may have captured her, but she definitely came off the winner in their fights.

She almost felt guilty for plotting ways to take him out, because he'd done an impressive job with breakfast; scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, a large bowl piled with fresh strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries, and the pastries, which were apparently important enough that he'd left her unsupervised to retrieve them.

"So?" he prompted, when she'd had time to sample a bite or two of everything.

"Apology accepted," she relented. "This is good."

"Course it is." he agreed smugly. "So listen, about last night. I don't want you to think-"

"It's fine," she interrupted. She could sense where he was going, and didn't have the slightest inclination to revisit a discussion that had nearly turned him against her. He could have whatever opinion he liked, as long as he got her in with S.H.I.E.L.D.

"No, it isn't. I judged you right after I promised not to, and that's a terrible feeling. When Coulson brought me in, every single Academy-trained agent I was paired with judged me for the things I'd done. I know how it feels, and I'm sorry."

She wasn't entirely sure what to do with his declaration, or what response he expected. In her experience, sincerity was often faked and used to manipulate emotions, but Barton wasn't that type. She knew she could take his statements at face value. She kept her head down and focused on her food.

"I think you told me that story because you wanted to prove to yourself that I couldn't understand," he continued after a moment. "I think you're afraid to take a risk and trust someone. I think you wanted me to throw you back out on the street because you don't believe you deserve a second chance."

"I think you should keep your assumptions to yourself," she retorted. She didn't care for being analyzed, especially when his assessments hit a little too close to the truth. He was unnervingly skilled at reading her. Or was it possible that he truly did have a little insight into what her life was like working for her handlers?

"This again, huh? I'm not gonna keep begging you to talk to me."

She snorted a laugh and decided to test that assertion. She gave him approximately three minutes before he opened his mouth again.

It was oddly satisfying to push his buttons, a tiny sense of control in a situation where she had very little. She watched as he refilled his coffee and hopped back up on the counter, stubbornly looking anywhere but at her. Of course a nice quiet breakfast was too much to hope for.

"Y'know, I thought we'd made a little progress last night. You were almost friendly."

"Two and a half minutes," she mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. Barton's eyebrows drew together.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll go with you," she said, voice holding more conviction than she actually felt. Anything to stop him trying to read her. If the sudden topic change threw him, he didn't let on.

"Can't just tag along," he warned. "You have to actually join."

"I'll work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," she assured him.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he said slyly. "I've already called Coulson. He flew out of D.C. last night. We've probably got an hour or two left before he gets here."

She couldn't summon the energy to be angry with him for the deception. Despite Barton's anecdotes about Coulson's character the night before, her stomach still clenched uncomfortably at the idea of meeting a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. official. She laid her fork down and pushed her plate away.

"None of that," Barton scolded. He slid off the counter and pushed her plate back across the bar. "Eat. We won't have anything but protein bars and water on the flight back."

He stared her down until she lifted her fork again, but she only chewed her lip and pushed the food around a bit.

"So your handler's coming to do the interrogation?" she asked, in what she hoped was a casual tone. Taking her chances and going off on her own suddenly seemed like the more appealing choice. MI6, KGB, S.H.I.E.L.D., all the agencies were the same. Her odds of escape were considerably lower once they had her restrained and broken. Fractured bones, internal injuries, head trauma, she knew all the best ways to keep a captive subdued and in one place, and she was certain S.H.I.E.L.D. would use the same techniques.

"You won't be interrogated," Barton said with an eye roll. "Coulson might ask you a couple questions, but nothing worse than I did last night. He'll go over the extraction procedure and tell us exactly when we're getting out of here. He'll probably read me the riot act for blowing my mission. That's it, routine stuff."

Sure, routine. She'd be beaten half-dead and tortured for information before they even made it to the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. A tiny part of her hoped Barton wouldn't be involved.

She forced back the impulse to charge him and make an escape, picking at her breakfast instead.

"You'll like S.H.I.E.L.D.," he said encouragingly. "You've got gyms, shooting ranges, heated pools, free wi-fi. There's a rock climbing wall on the tenth floor. The rooms aren't bad if you want to live on base, and there's a Starbucks in the cafeteria. R&D always has new toys to test if you like that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" she asked, curiosity winning out over nerves. He was obviously trying to talk it up, make S.H.I.E.L.D. sound appealing, make her forget about the impending interrogation that was sure to be more than 'a couple questions'. He was doing a good job.

"Blowing stuff up," he said with a boyish grin. "Those exploding arrows are prototypes."

"You just request whatever you want?"

"Within reason. I still can't get Fury to push funding for boomerang arrows."

"Boomerang arrows," she repeated skeptically, and wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

Barton paused, head cocked to the side and confusion drawing his eyebrows together, as if he'd never considered the application of the idea.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he said at last, and jammed another sausage in his mouth.

S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to have a lot of _stuff,_ rewards to keep agents loyal if she had to guess. A reward-based system probably made for weak operatives, but it sure sounded preferable to the KGB method of beating the shit out of agents for a failed mission. And, she had to admit, an R &D department that focused on actual technology piqued her interest.

She worked her way steadily through three sausages, two pastries, and a pile of scrambled eggs while Barton shoveled down second helpings of everything. By the time he dropped his empty plate in the sink and collected hers, the prospect of meeting Coulson didn't seem quite so daunting.

"Anything I should know about Coulson?" she asked, picking at the dish of fruit. It was probably good to have something that wasn't fried or packed with empty calories. Barton poured his fourth cup of coffee and considered.

"Don't do that look. The one where you pretend to focus your telekinetic powers to explode my brain. The _I'm-gonna-murder-you-in-your-sleep_ look."

"I don't do that," she protested, even though she was fairly certain which expression he was referring to.

"Ha! You're doing it right now!" he insisted. "I say something stupid and your eyes go dark and one eyebrow twitches, and your mouth does this tiny little scowl. Fucking terrifying. Don't look at Coulson like that."

"Anything else?" she prompted, and made an effort to arrange her features into a more neutral expression.

"Just give him Natalia. He'll look past your reputation and see what I see."

"Your advice is absolutely useless," she told him. She slid down from the barstool and limped back toward the sofa. "Nobody likes Natalia."

"I like Natalia," he protested, falling into step beside her. She arched an eyebrow. "You need to remember he's doing you a favor. This wouldn't work if it was only me vouching for you. Answer his questions, don't talk in circles, and don't lie. Better?"

"A little," she said, and curled into the corner of the sofa with her coffee. "More useful than 'be yourself'."

"He collects vintage junk and he's got a '62 Corvette named Lola. What do you want me to tell you?"

He sat beside her and leaned over the opposite end of the sofa to retrieve the black duffel bag.

"That's enough," she sighed. What was she supposed to do with the car, threaten to scratch the paint? Maybe Coulson would fall for pouty lips and crocodile tears.

"Stop trying to think of ways to manipulate everyone," Barton admonished. He pulled a laptop from the bag and set it up on the coffee table. He offered her the television controller. "Try something new: spend the next hour until Coulson gets here relaxing. Why don't you see if we made the news last night? That's always fun."

It probably wasn't worth wasting breath to point out that making the news meant the mission was a failure. She took the remote and flipped a few channels while Barton booted up the computer.

"Don't," she warned, as he drew her flash drive out of the bag and made to plug it in.

"This is due diligence," he argued. "I have to make sure you don't have orders or mission parameters saved on this thing. How do I know you're not a sleeper agent trying to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"That's a weak justification for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," she countered. He lifted one shoulder in an offhanded shrug and grinned a little.

"Tell me what's on it, then."

"Private information. Information that doesn't concern you or S.H.I.E.L.D. or anyone except me." Then, because it was the only thing she hadn't tried and she was just desperate enough, "Can't you please just confiscate it and give it back later?"

The _please_ tasted sour on her tongue and came out more sarcastic than sincere. She was fairly certain he didn't have the skills to get in, much less work his way through to the files she'd rather keep hidden. He was annoyingly good at surprising her, however, so she judged it best to play nice, lest she discover he held a hidden talent for hacking.

"Not gonna happen," Barton said, and plugged the drive into the computer.

What an asshole.

"Fine. I warned you," she replied coolly.

She settled the television on a weather report and watched from the corner of her eye as Barton tried to access her files. He typed and clicked until a Cyrillic phrase and a neat row of ten grey boxes popped up on the screen.

"Password protected, huh? Ten characters..." He slid off the sofa to sit on the floor, legs stretched under the coffee table. "Russian or English?" he asked, looking up at her with a hopeful expression.

"Neither," she answered truthfully.

Barton wasn't deterred. He muttered to himself in a surprising array of languages, entering letters and erasing them until at last he seemed satisfied with his first guess. She gave an involuntary flinch a half second before he pushed _enter_.

An earsplitting klaxon siren wailed from the computer's speakers. Barton jumped and banged his knee on the underside of the coffee table.

"What's that say?" he demanded, voice lifted over the noise of the speakers. He turned the computer to give her a better view. The screen flashed a violent red, with tall black letter spelling a phrase in Russian. She turned her attention back to the television.

"Roughly translated, it means 'fuck you'."

He gave an exasperated huff.

"Come on, how do I fix it?"

"Smash it," she suggested, and bit her lip to hide a smile.

"I'm not _smashing_ it!" he replied, appalled. "This isn't a laptop I can replace at the Apple store. It's a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of sophisticated S.H.I.E.L.D. technology."

"Well, now it's an incredibly expensive paperweight."

"Okay, you win," he ground out. "I should have minded my own business. Now will you fix it?"

"I _can't_ fix it," she lied. "Nobody can fix it, it's dead. If you smash it, it'll shut up."

"You're screwing with me. I'm not smashing it."

"Then we get to listen to its death throes for another fifteen minutes."

"Fine, I'll bite. What happens in fifteen minutes?"

"You're gonna wish you smashed it," she replied smugly, and went back to flipping channels.

Barton hauled himself back up on the sofa and continued to jab his fingers against the keyboard, scowling when the screen flashed stubbornly red and the speakers continued to blare. She watched him control-alt-delete and forcefully bang the _escape_ key. He held down the power button, tore the flash drive out and tossed it on the table, closed the laptop and opened it again, tried to pry the battery out and failed.

As it turned out, sophisticated S.H.I.E.L.D. technology crashed and burned faster than an off-the-shelf notebook.

"That's...not normal," Barton mumbled seven minutes later. Thin, wispy columns of grey smoke began to drift up between the computer's keys.

"Coffee?" she asked innocently. She scooped up her mug and palmed the flash drive on the pretense of taking his cup as well.

"Uh-uh, get back here," Barton called after her, eyes still locked on the computer. "This is your fault!"

Confident that he hadn't noticed anything, she rounded the bar into the kitchen and slipped the drive into the front pocket of her pullover. She took her time pouring more coffee into the mugs, studiously ignoring the acrid scent of burning plastic that permeated the apartment.

"Shit. _Shit._ _Natalia!_ "

She leaned against the counter and watched flames shoot toward the living room ceiling. She felt the tiniest flicker of remorse on seeing Barton's wide eyes and panicked expression, but the feeling didn't last. He wouldn't bring her in if he read the files on that drive, and the most effective deterrent was to destroy his means of viewing them.

Barton pulled it together and bolted into the kitchen long enough to retrieve a fire extinguisher from the cabinet under the sink. Once he had the flames smothered, he tilted the coffee table up and let the remains of the computer slide to the carpet, where he gave it one final blast with the extinguisher for good measure. Natalia went to investigate.

"Should've smashed it," she told him smugly.

"I oughta smash you," he growled, but the threat didn't carry any real weight. He nudged the melted hunk of plastic casing and charred circuit boards with the toe of his boot. "Was that necessary?"

"I told you, the things on that drive don't concern you. I think you've got the point."

"Coulson won't be happy," he warned.

"Tell him the battery overheated," she shrugged, and stepped around the table toward the sofa.

She caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye, too late to counter as Barton hooked an arm around her chest, pinned her arms, and forced her back against him. She twisted in his grasp and he surprisingly released her, giving her an unkind push as she went that made her stagger on her sprained ankle.

"Hawkeye, remember?" he said with a scowl. He held up the flash drive. "I notice everything. You're _this close_ to being tied up and sedated again."

This time, she believed the threat.

He stalked across the room and opened the window, using an empty S.H.I.E.L.D. file to fan some of the smoke outside. His body language was similar to the night before, defensive and tense, and his eyes held the same dark expression.

She dropped onto the sofa and studied him, watching for a break in his demeanor. Maybe setting his computer on fire was escalating the situation a step too far. She'd gotten lucky when he decided to withhold judgement on last night's story, but hoping for forgiveness twice in twenty-four hours was a little too optimistic.

She couldn't seem to find the balance between making enough of a personal connection to keep him happy and holding him safely at arm's length. Why was Barton so much harder than any other mark? If she kept this up, he'd be thinking twice about bringing her back to S.H.I.E.L.D. whether he read her files or not.

She gave his anger time to burn out, watching quietly until most of the smoke had cleared the apartment and he came to throw himself at the opposite end of the sofa. He ignored her and put the television back on the same football match from earlier, although he didn't seem invested in the outcome.

"Sorry?" she tried. He didn't look away from the football match, jaw set in a hard line.

"You're not sorry."

Fair enough. She _wasn't_ really sorry.

"You can blame the computer on me," she offered.

"Damn straight I'm blaming it on you."

She found it annoying that after all the time she'd spent wishing he would shut up, she felt it necessary to try so hard to win his attention again.

The room was becoming downright frigid, although it didn't seem to bother Barton. His attitude didn't exactly invite conversation, so she stood and crossed to the window with the intent of closing it, for lack of anything better to do.

There wasn't a fire escape, but there was a skinny little ledge and a pipe that ran down the corner of the building. If she tried, she could probably make it to the ground in one piece. She leaned with her elbows on the sill and shot a quick glance back at Barton. She expected him to warn her away from the window, threaten to tie her up again if she started getting ideas, but he kept his eyes focused steadily on the television. At this point, he probably hoped she'd jump out the window and spare him the trouble of dealing with her.

She slammed the window with a little more force than entirely necessary and went back to her end of the sofa. She could be stoic and quiet, too. Barton liked the sound of his own voice too much to give her the silent treatment for long.

The football match wrapped up, but he didn't give any indication of which team he'd been pulling for. As the next game started, she began to worry that she'd pushed too far. Maybe she should attempt to make her apology _sincere_ next time.

"I get what you're doing, even if you don't realize you're doing it," Barton said. Apparently he judged her sufficiently chastised. He cut the sound on the television.

"Enlighten me," she requested, less than thrilled about yet another attempt to analyze her motives. It was tiresome, the way he kept trying to figure her out. It seemed to be his only agenda.

"It's like..." He frowned and stared at the ceiling, choosing his words carefully. "Things have been shit for so long, when something good happens you're afraid to trust it. So you do everything you can to ruin it, prove to yourself that it was too good to be true. Usually things do fall apart. When that happens you aren't happy about it, but you aren't surprised either. You don't feel sad or disappointed, you just expect it. When the next good thing comes along you destroy it faster. It's easier than hoping things'll turn out differently."

She had been prepared to retaliate or tell him to shut up, but when she paused and considered his words, they made sense.

She recalled the little girl who slept on the bunk beside her in the Red Room, the girl who had pretended to be her friend and tried to murder her while she slept. Nikolai, who had made love to her in every major city in Belgium, then left her cuffed to the bed in Antwerp while he attempted to collect the reward for her capture from the government. A promotion, the Black Widow title, which only came with stricter observation and the always-impending threat of reprogramming to keep her loyal.

There was always a catch. At some point, she'd stopped hoping things would change and decided to live in a constant state of waiting for things to implode.

"Just don't with me, okay? Stop trying to piss me off on purpose. I said I'd take you in, so I'm taking you in. I'm not going to let them interrogate you or lock you up. The next couple weeks probably won't be fun, but it won't be as horrible as you're expecting." He stood and worked a phone from the back pocket of his jeans. " Anyway. I should call Coulson, make sure we're still on schedule."

She caught his sleeve before he could walk away. He looked down at her with raised eyebrows and surprise written across his features.

"You're sort of the first good thing," she said quietly, because it was true and Barton didn't really deserve all the shit she'd been giving him. He was genuine and altruistic, not devious like the Red Room girls or controlling like her handlers. Maybe she didn't need to work so hard to deflect his kindness and keep him at arm's length. "Not a lot of good where I'm from," she added.

"Yeah," Barton agreed, "but you'll get used to it."

He mussed her hair as he passed, a quick affectionate gesture, his fingers tangling briefly in her curls before flipping them up to obscure her vision. The unexpected touch made her flinch in a way that brought to mind skittish stray dogs, and she knew Barton had noticed.

"Do that again and I'll break your fingers," she called belatedly, brushing the hair out of her eyes. He waved her off, unconcerned, and pressed the phone to his ear.

Coulson was ten minutes out. She was too well-trained to display any outward signs of nerves, but Barton seemed to anticipate her feelings about the impending meeting. He moved around the apartment, tossing things into the black duffel bag and relating positive anecdotes about his handler. The character reference didn't make her any more inclined to trust Coulson.

Barton's phone buzzed much too soon for her liking, and she opted to observe from the sofa rather than immediately make introductions. He didn't comment or suggest otherwise. When Barton opened the door, he was greeted by a man in a suit and three agents with assault rifles.

Instincts and training overrode any sense of security she'd felt at using Barton as a buffer. She leapt to her feet and took up a defensive stance, backing slowly toward the kitchen with the idea of getting her hands on a knife.

"They need to wait outside," Barton said. He stood with one hand braced against the doorjamb, blocking entrance until the man in the suit ordered the agents to stand guard.

Barton stepped aside and allowed the suit, presumably Agent Coulson, into the apartment, closing and locking the door quickly behind him.

"This would probably go easier if you lost the gun," Barton suggested. "She's twitchy."

"I can see that," Coulson muttered quietly. He eyed her warily and reached slowly into his suit jacket, drawing out the aforementioned gun and holding it by the barrel as he passed it to Barton. "Better?"

"You're doing the look. Knock it off," Barton admonished, and shot her a significant glance. "You're killing your first impression."

She watched Agent Coulson for another long moment, cataloging the possible concealed weapons he could be carrying in that suit, then relaxed her fighting stance and went cautiously forward to meet him.

"Barton didn't mention you'd have backup," she offered in explanation. Coulson gave her a little smile.

"Phil Coulson," he said, tone pleasant enough, although not particularly warm or inviting. He held out his hand for an introduction.

"She doesn't do handshakes," Barton warned.

She took Agent Coulson's hand and turned a defiant gaze on Barton. Was he _trying_ to blow it for her already?

"You're an asshole," he assessed conversationally. "Total asshole, Phil. She'll fit right in."

"What would you like me to call you? Natalia? Black Widow? Agent Romanova?"

"Just Natalia," she replied carefully, unsure if how she chose to identify herself was part of Coulson's assessment.

"Natalia, then," he agreed.

Coulson moved purposefully into the apartment, a black leather portfolio tucked under one arm and his gaze raking the room. Barton trailed after him, and she stuck close on his heels.

"Accident?" Coulson asked, pausing as he rounded the sofa, eyeing the soot marks on the ceiling, the charred computer, and the much abused coffee table.

"Battery overheated," Barton said with a surprisingly straight face.

"He was trying to hack my drive," Natalia said simultaneously, because Barton had told her to be honest.

"Neither of those explanations work here," Coulson said, tone surprisingly light considering the situation. "Sit, please."

Judging only on her first impression, she didn't care at all for Agent Coulson. He struck her as the kill-them-with-kindness type, too nice. The kind to maintain a pleasant facade, then flash into anger when he didn't receive the answers he wanted. That gun wasn't the only weapon he carried, she felt sure.

She followed Barton and sat on the sofa while Coulson dragged over the chair by the window. He situated himself on the opposite side of the scorched coffee table and laid out his portfolio, opening it to reveal a yellow legal pad half-full with notes already.

"We're pressed for time," he began. "Ninety minutes until extraction. That gives us about half an hour to decide if you'll be a good fit for S.H.I.E.L.D. Let's start with a little debrief. Barton pissed off a hotel full of drug dealers, interrupted your hit, and left you for bait while he escaped."

Being addressed immediately startled her. She judged it best to keep quiet, as Coulson hadn't asked her a direct question.

"Sounds bad when you put it like that," Barton mumbled defensively beside her.

"The situation progressed to a firefight in an alley." Coulson paused and looked up from his notes. "Can you tell me why you chose to fight alongside Barton rather than kill him?"

"I couldn't have made it out of the alley alone. He was useful."

"He has his moments," Coulson agreed, and added a quick note to his portfolio. "So. You killed the Germans and...turned on each other?"

"She started it," Barton interjected helpfully. Coulson narrowed his eyes.

"Remove yourself from the conversation, Clint. We've got to get through this quickly."

Barton shrugged and stood, wandering toward the kitchen with a muttered diatribe about the stick up Coulson's ass. She watched him go and repressed the urge to squirm uncomfortably at the prospect of being Coulson's sole focus of attention.

"You attacked Barton then because the fighting was over?" Coulson prompted.

"He told me in the hotel room I was his mark. I didn't expect him to let me live."

"But you let him live."

"I got that kill order because I took out one of your agents. It didn't seem prudent to kill a second."

Coulson made another note, frowning down at the portfolio.

"Did _Barton_ tell you the reason for the kill order?"

"Yes," she said slowly. And then, because there was an odd tension under Coulson's tone, she added, "I had a gun to his head. He didn't volunteer the information."

"Did he share anything else?"

"No," she lied smoothly, thinking of the S.H.I.E.L.D. file he'd dropped in her lap the night before.

"Tell me about your second encounter."

She could tell from the way Coulson moved the conversation along that he'd bought the lies. He wasn't nearly as intimidating as she originally imagined him, but she didn't like the unsettling feeling that he was trying to investigate Barton through her answers. The interview was supposed to be about her, but his name was coming up with suspicious regularity.

"Barton shot me with a tranquilizer and brought me here. He said I could have a second chance if I wanted it. Start over at S.H.I.E.L.D."

Coulson closed the leather portfolio and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"I don't buy the second chance angle. You don't seem the type."

_Point for Coulson_ , she thought wryly. She decided to go with honest again.

"I've been in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody for approximately sixteen hours. I left the last half of my mission unfinished and missed two check-ins. If I go back to my handlers now, the consequences won't be pleasant."

"You're asking for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s protection."

"Barton offered. I'm not asking S.H.I.E.L.D. for anything."

Make that very clear. She didn't want to go in with the higher-ups thinking she owed them, that they somehow owned her for extending a favor.

"He said you agreed to join. Switch loyalties, just like that."

Coulson snapped his fingers for emphasis. Barton caught her eye and gave her an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up from the kitchen; she wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean.

"It doesn't make a difference. Killing's still killing, whether I do it for the KGB or S.H.I.E.L.D. It's what I'm good at. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s just the lesser of two evils."

Barton dropped his forehead to rest against the bar with an audible thud and groan. Apparently the thumbs-up had meant 'lie spectacularly' and not 'keep being honest'.

" _That_ I believe," Coulson said, and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, Natalia, what's going to stop you from moving on to the next agency? We bring you in, you get your hands on S.H.I.E.L.D. intel, and sell it to the highest bidder. How do I know I can trust you?"

"How did you know you could trust Barton?" she countered.

"We're not playing that game," Coulson warned. "You don't ask the questions. Give me a reason why I should trust you."

"Because Barton trusts me," she said. It was the only goddamn thing she had going for her.

Coulson left his chair without another word and went to stand by the window. He studied the street below, hands folded behind his back. She didn't understand how the short volley of questions could give him anything to go on. He didn't have enough information to make any kind of rational judgement about her potential as an asset for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Barton wandered over and took Coulson's chair, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

"Brutal interrogation," he commented with exaggerated sympathy. He gave her that stupid shit-eating grin. "Glad you survived."

"Am I in, or not?" she demanded quietly, shooting a quick glance toward the window. Coulson seemed to be ignoring them.

"I hope you're in. I don't have a contingency plan if Coulson says 'no'."

She eyed Coulson's notes, sure that they would give her a hint about his intentions.

"Didn't we _just_ have a lesson on minding our own business?" Barton asked, but he gave the portfolio an obliging kick that sent it sliding to her side of the table.

She hesitated to open it. What if leaving his notes unguarded was part of the assessment, too? She pushed the portfolio back across the table with a disgruntled huff.

"I'll give you our terms," Coulson said suddenly, turning his attention away from the window. "No negotiation."

He crossed the room and took up the portfolio, using it to give Barton a solid whack to the back of the head. Barton scowled and vacated Coulson's chair.

"Once we reach headquarters you'll go to a containment cell for the first twenty-four hours," Coulson began, "then you'll be moved upstairs to one of the on-base apartments. You'll wear a tracking bracelet to monitor your movements. There will be a pair of guards posted outside your door day and night. You won't go anywhere unless you're escorted by either Barton or myself, and you won't be allowed off base. You'll submit to a series of interviews, polygraph tests, and psychological evaluations. You will be expected to formally defect to the United States, which means you will give up any state secrets or information about the Russian government and the KGB. If Director Fury is satisfied with your evaluations and you prove cooperative, you'll have a month-long probationary period followed by formal S.H.I.E.L.D. training."

"Fine," she agreed. Coulson's terms sounded fair, if a little more restrictive than Barton had originally promised.

"No counter-arguments?" Coulson prompted.

"I expected worse, to be honest."

"She expected us to torture her for information," Barton clarified.

"Not our style," Coulson reassured her. "If you're coming with us, it's best if the KGB thinks you're dead." He slid a thin tablet from the portfolio, opposite the notepad, and laid it out on the table. "There will be a body approximately your height and weight left in your hotel room. Fingerprints and DNA will match."

"That's impossible," she scoffed. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't that good. "They'll know the difference."

Coulson pulled a sleek black box from his pocket, unwound the cord wrapped around it, and plugged it into the tablet.

"They won't. Give me your hand."

She crossed her arms and leaned away.

"It's a finger stick," Barton explained, and shot Coulson an annoyed glance. "Give it here, I'll do it."

He sat beside her on the sofa and pulled the tablet into his lap, then worked his fingernails between the seam on the side of the metal box until it popped open. He held it out in his palm for her to examine.

"See? It's a little spring-loaded needle. It takes a blood sample, that's all. This part analyzes your DNA and sends it to the tablet."

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s going to clone me and kill the double?" she guessed.

"Classified?" Barton asked Coulson.

"Classified," Coulson confirmed. "You don't need to know how the technology works, only that it does."

"Do it," she said, before she lost her resolve. Giving an agency like S.H.I.E.L.D. a blood sample and fingerprints would surely come back to bite her in the ass.

Barton took her hand and positioned the metal box so that the contoured underside rested snugly against the pad of her finger , then counted up to three and pressed the button on the side of the box. The mechanism inside released with a snap and pain lanced up her finger at the needle jab.

"You're done," Barton told her as a light on top flashed from red to green. She pulled her hand free, but found nothing worse than a tiny bead of blood on her finger. They scanned her prints next, Barton demonstrating how to position her hand flat on the tablet screen for a good reading.

"I appreciate the cooperation," Coulson said as he collected the tablet from Barton. "That could've been a lot more difficult."

He stepped outside briefly, returning sans tablet but with a black duffel bag identical to Barton's.

"Agent Wilkes is going to plant the body," Coulson explained. "This is for you," he added, and offered the duffel. "Clothes, girl...things, hair stuff. I had Agent Hill put a bag together. You can shower and change while I talk to Barton."

She studied Coulson and the bag skeptically, waiting for the catch. Barton huffed impatiently beside her.

"Thanks," she said at last, and took the bag.

"Come on, shower's through here."

Barton led her through a door that had so far remained shut. The room wasn't locked, and she was surprised to find an assortment of guns, knives, and Barton's bow laid out on the bed. She recognized her own weapons amid the pile.

"Cleaned your guns," Barton said, following her gaze.

"Thanks," she said again, and this time meant it.

She dropped the bag on the bed and followed Barton into the bathroom. He showed her a drawer stocked with individually wrapped toothbrushes, travel size tubes of toothpaste, and little bottles of shampoo and body wash. She picked through the drawer while he retrieved a clean set of towels and dropped them on the counter.

"Disinfect everything and do clean bandages," he ordered, and laid a first aid kit on top of the towels. "I can wrap your ankle again, if you need help."

"Think I've got it," she told him.

"We've got extraction in an hour," he reminded her. He pulled the door half closed as he went; she watched through the crack until he crossed the bedroom, collected the weapons from the bed, and shut that door too. She started the shower running, waited thirty seconds, then padded quietly back through the bedroom and leaned against the door, straining to hear any private conversation Barton and Coulson's might be having. She wasn't disappointed.

"...and you said 'pay it forward'. That's what I'm doing."

"I meant rescue a puppy or volunteer at a soup kitchen, not bring home a stray KGB agent."

"She's just a kid, Phil. She doesn't deserve what they're doing to her."

"She has free will. She knows right from wrong. Why is she still on the KGB's payroll?"

"Come on, you know what they do to those girls. We've got intel on the Red Room going back to the SSR days."

More intel than would fit on three printed pages, she didn't doubt. The mission dossier from the night before was incomplete. She slid down to sit on the carpet, listening intently to discover how much they might know.

"Exactly. You've read the files, Clint. She's dangerous. Best case scenario she's manipulating us, at the worst she's unstable. Either way, she won't pass the assessments."

"She won't if you set her up to fail."

"This is more than a case of a little girl falling in with the wrong people. She isn't a scrawny orphan from Iowa. She's been groomed and programmed to be the perfect operative her entire life. She doesn't know anything else."

The conversation dissolved into heavy, tense silence. When Barton spoke again, his words were weighted with sarcasm.

"You want me to put her down, _sir_?"

"Do you know what this looks like, Clint? You've stretched this mission an extra two weeks. You've missed check-ins. You declined backup. You're holed up here playing house with your little Soviet girlfriend-"

"It's not like that-"

"The Council are questioning your loyalties," Coulson interrupted, lifting his voice over Barton's indignant protest. "They're suggesting that you're a double agent and that you've been passing intel to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s enemies. They think you're working with her. Unless you're prepared to deal with the fallout from the Council, then yes, I want you to go in there and finish your mission."

Coulson didn't seem to deserve his rave character reference. She held her breath in anticipation of Barton's reply, resigned to going out there and siding with him if it came down to a fight with Coulson and the guards.

Heavy footfalls advanced toward the bedroom. God, she was an idiot.

She allowed herself one second of weakness, a moment to exhale and slump against the door while her heart dropped into her stomach. The Council sounded almost as unforgiving as the Red Room. Barton kept urging her to believe he understood her situation, and she finally bought it. She couldn't blame him for his decision. If her handler had given her the ultimatum, she'd make the same choice.

She recast him as the archer in her mind. It made the prospect of killing him sting a little less.

She rose in a graceful, fluid motion and stepped to the right of the door, taking up a defensive stance. Strike fast and hard, aim for his face and the bruised ribs on the left side. Take his weapon of choice, shoot Coulson, go out the window before the agents standing guard caught on. She felt a swell of resentment toward Coulson for forcing her into a fight. She was beginning to genuinely like the archer.

Still, it was exactly as he'd said. The good was too good to be true. Easiest to destroy it and move on.

"I'll take my chances with the Council," the archer declared, but she didn't believe him. He was well-trained, he probably anticipated the possibility that she was waiting to take him down. She listened as he shuffled outside for a moment, then silence. She stood tense, ready to leap at him if he chose to open the door, but when nothing happened for a full five minutes, she cracked the door just enough to peek out.

"It isn't polite to eavesdrop," the archer said quietly. He leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed and eyes trained on a point across the room. A gun had found its way into the back waistband of his jeans.

"Gonna shoot me, Barton?" she asked. She had meant to sound flippant, but the words leaned toward tentative.

"Haven't yet." He caught her eye and gave her the tiniest hint of a smile. "Hurry up, we're on a schedule."

He pushed the door shut and she leaned against it for a moment, whispering his name to the dark bedroom to solidify her resolve. The man from the night before, the archer, the enemy she thought she knew, wasn't Clint Barton. Barton had just defied his handler and chosen not to take the easy way out. For her. Clint Barton gave her a dangerous feeling that for reasons unknown, she was ready to embrace, at least on a trial basis.

Partner was a stretch, and friend was out of the question, but she could get used to having an ally she could trust.


	5. Bad Luck With Guys In Cars

Natalia emerged cautiously from the bedroom twenty minutes later, but it appeared Barton and Coulson had reconciled. They sat side-by-side on the sofa, intently watching something on the television.

"Swear to God, Phil, she was here the entire night, passed out on the couch. This wasn't her."

Coulson was still gunning for her, then.

"What's going on?" she asked to announce her presence, and wondered why she hadn't simply snuck back into the bedroom.

"We've got a problem," Barton said tightly. He stood and ran a hand through his hair. "Big problem. You..." He trailed off, eyes raking her appearance. He smirked a little. "Coulson didn't bring you a shirt?"

In truth, the bag had been stuffed with clothes, almost too many choices. In the end, she'd gone for comfortable. She wore a pair of black yoga pants and grey running shoes with matching socks, and a black long sleeve fitted shirt. There was even a brace with velcro straps for her ankle. A grey fleece jacket was folded neatly in the bottom of the bag, but she'd made a stupid decision and grabbed Barton's pullover again instead. She hadn't paused to examine why.

"Shut up," she retorted, and gave him _the look_.

"Is that yours now? Think you get to keep it?"

"It's warm," she argued defensively.

"Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart."

"Problem," Coulson interjected, and gave Barton a pointed look.

"Your hotel room's been ransacked," Barton told her. "Wilkes planted the body anyway, but it probably won't do us much good. Check out the news."

The television showed a street with two red-stained imprints in the snow.

"Look familiar?" Barton prompted.

It didn't at first, not until the scene cut to the front of tan brick building. A pair of pictures flashed on the screen, a mother and child. The family she'd spared three nights ago.

"Shot in the street, execution style. Don't think it's a coincidence."

"Not a coincidence," she agreed, and felt a little twist of anguish in her stomach. It would have been more merciful to take them out herself, quickly and cleanly, before they had time to process the danger. "Somebody's cleaning up my mess."

"Any idea who?" Coulson asked.

"Not specifically," she replied. She hadn't bothered to check if any other agents had assignments in the area. She'd stopped caring long ago if they sent a tail to observe her missions. "Were you followed last night?" she asked Barton. "Bringing me here?"

"I would've noticed."

"What about this morning?"

"This morning?" Coulson demanded. "You left her alone?"

"I went to the bakery half a block away," Barton clarified, tone defensive. "Ten seconds. She was fine. And no, I wasn't followed," he added.

The news report changed, this time showing a pile of soot-blackened bricks and a burned out car in an alley.

"Looks like we made the news after all," she said.

"We didn't burn the building down," Barton scoffed. "I think it's time you told us about your mission."

He obviously expected something classified and sinister, something to explain the sudden violence, but compared to her usual objectives the Munich assignment was downright boring.

"Two rival drug rings import their product into Moscow," she began, "which isn't a problem as long as they slip the right people the right amount of money on the way in. They've stopped paying the bribes, so instead of taking out their distribution channels in Russia, they sent me to destroy both operations at the source. I presented myself as a freelance assassin to the first, Wilhelm Albrecht. He paid me to kill Dreschler. I got in and killed him, then left a little calling card."

Barton's brow furrowed.

"The tie?" he guessed. "I thought that was weird."

"Albrecht always wears an Hermes silk tie. Dreschler's men would catch on, then go take out the other drug ring in revenge. Would've worked, if you hadn't barged in."

Barton didn't have the grace to look ashamed.

"This is happening because I didn't kill you when I should have," she added. "Someone saw me fighting with you instead of against you. They think I'm compromised."

"You _are_ compromised," Barton pointed out, the faintest hint of pride behind his tone. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of agreeing.

"The mission doesn't matter anymore," Coulson said. "They're sending you a message."

"They'll finish what I started, then come after me," she agreed. "It's an intimidation tactic. We should move up the extraction."

Coulson stood and squared his shoulders, giving her what she supposed was meant to be an intimidating glare.

"You don't give the orders, Ms. Romanova. You're under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s protection, and as such-"

The news anchor detailed another story, this time an explosion that leveled half a mile of warehouses in an industrial park.

"That's where Albrecht kept his base," she pointed out. "I'm next."

"Extraction," Coulson agreed grudgingly, casting a quick glance at the television. "I'll see what I can do about the timeline."

He pressed his phone to his ear and stepped into the hallway. Natalia watched him point one of the agents to the opposite end of the hall.

"Is it working?" Barton asked.

"Is what working?"

"Are they scaring you?"

"No," she lied, and moved to brush past him.

"They won't kill you," Barton said slowly. He studied her with narrowed eyes, and she waited for the moment of realization, when he'd piece together the things she'd told him with the intel from the S.H.I.E.L.D. files. "They'll take you back alive. Make you theirs again. That's what you're running from."

"Sounds like you need another lesson," she replied coolly. He was too perceptive, too close.

"Hey," he said sharply, and caught her wrist before she could walk away. "This _is_ my business now. If you're going to get good agents killed trying to protect you, we deserve to know why. _I_ deserve to know. I'm taking a lot of shit for you, Natalia."

"Fine," she retorted, and wrenched her arm out of his grasp. She leered up at him, fists clenched as an anxious, fluttery sort of rage tightened her chest because he was too close, she let him get past her defenses and now he knew enough to be a real threat. "You're right, I'll be reprogrammed," she confirmed bitterly. "Next time there won't be any Natalia left. Is that what you want to hear?"

"You can drop the attitude," Barton warned. "You've gotta give me something to go on. I'll pull you out, but I need to know how much help I can expect. I need to know you won't freeze up if we have to fight these guys."

"I'm not afraid to kill KGB agents," she scoffed. "I'm not afraid of my handlers. We're better than they are. But if they catch me... If it comes down to it you'd better finish your mission, Barton, because I'm _not_ going back."

His countenance softened, his shoulders losing some of the tension.

"I can do that," he agreed quietly.

His acquiescence caught her off guard. The nervous, aggressive energy seeped away all at once, leaving her feeling hollow and drained. Hadn't she _just_ decided to trust Barton half an hour ago? Give him a shot, stop pushing him back every time he breached uncomfortable territory? It was clear even Barton's patience was wearing thin.

The news report flashed the little girl's picture again, superimposed over the bloodstained snow. Frustrated tears prickled behind her eyes. This was the part Barton would never understand. Her intentions didn't matter. She could work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and run missions for the right reasons, but the macabre aura of death was something she'd never be able to shake. She had a penchant for violence engrained through too much conditioning and too many close calls in the field. Even when she tried to keep the collateral damage to a minimum, it backfired.

"Can't believe you think I'd freeze," she muttered disdainfully, and fixed her attention on the opposite side of the room until her eyes stopped stinging. He either didn't notice or pretended not to.

"Some of the stuff I've read about the Red Room... If it was me, I'd be fucking terrified."

"How much do you know?" she asked, composed again and hoping she didn't sound too eager. With Barton being ordered to kill her a second time, she'd temporarily forgotten that S.H.I.E.L.D. knew more than the three pages in Barton's mission file. Coulson would probably say the information was classified, but Coulson was out in the hallway.

"We've got intel going back to the second World War. It spikes and gaps. The SSR compiled the original files." Barton paused for a moment, thinking. "Nothing for a stretch in the 60's, got preoccupied with Vietnam. Caught our interest against during the Cold War, our guys ran across a ton of operatives. The girls were more lethal than in Peggy Carter's day. S.H.I.E.L.D. brought in a dozen or so, but none of them talked. They either killed themselves or escaped. Intelligence suggested that after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the Red Room program fell apart. But about ten years ago, agents started disappearing. S.H.I.E.L.D., MI6, even CSIS. Had us stumped for a while. Who wants intel on Canada, you know?"

"I just want to know what S.H.I.E.L.D. knows about the Red Room's methods. Current methods," she amended, before he began to recite the entire file verbatim.

"The Pavlov thing?" Barton asked, almost immediately. "Ring a bell, get a response?"

It was a rudimentary explanation, and not entirely correct as the Red Room didn't use classical conditioning, but she understood what he was referring to. She was momentarily stunned that S.H.I.E.L.D. knew even that much.

"I've been on the wrong end of that one," he added.

"Wheels up in fifteen minutes," Coulson said, stepping back into the apartment. He glanced suspiciously between the two of them, as if he had some kind of sixth sense that told him when classified information was being shared. "Let's move."

Curiosity burned in her chest. That must be how Barton got assigned her kill order, he had experience. And once she was properly taken into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, she wouldn't get unmonitored time alone with him to learn more. Maybe she could corner him away from Coulson on the trip back.

"Formality," Coulson announced, and took a set of handcuffs from an inside pocket of his jacket. He passed them to Barton, who eyed them disdainfully and threw Coulson a scowl. Natalia took a wary step back, but otherwise locked down the nervous energy thrumming in her veins. She hadn't realistically expected them to let her go unrestrained.

"Like you couldn't slip these in thirty seconds if you wanted to," Barton urged.

He had a point.

"That's the only way you're leaving," Coulson added, doing a final sweep of the room to collect anything Barton might have missed. He picked up an empty file from the floor by the window. The annoying sensation that she'd forgotten something important prodded the back of her mind.

She shook the feeling off and held out her hands, and it was an exercise in willpower not to pull away at the last instant. Barton latched the cuffs around her right wrist first, so loose that she could almost slide her hand out without the inconvenience of dislocating her thumb. He gave her the tiniest wink and a faint ghost of a smile, then fastened the other side loosely as well.

"See? Not so... Phil?"

She watched his expression shift to something close to alarm.

A black canvas bag came down over her head and pulled tight across her throat from behind. The little tremor of nerves exploded into a display of well-honed survival instincts.

She wrenched one hand free of the cuffs and spun, landing a solid punch to Coulson's face before Barton got to her. He hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her away, her feet leaving the carpet briefly as he moved them a safe distance across the room. She took the opportunity to aim a halfhearted kick at his kneecap and twist in his grasp.

"Stop, Nat! _Stop_!"

He whipped the bag off her head and gave her a little shake, holding her tightly against him until she gave up wiggling and trying to grind her heel against his instep. They stood panting for a moment, Barton loosening his grip by degrees until he stepped back and raised his hands.

"Okay?" he asked cautiously. He placed himself between her and Coulson, who was pushing himself gingerly into a sitting position on the floor. She watched the muscles of his arms flex and tighten, his stance tense. Probably waiting to see if she meant to turn on them.

"Not okay. You said I could trust you," she snarled back. Blinding her wasn't Barton's idea, she felt sure, but it made the indignity of being caught off guard sting a little less to take a shot at him.

"This isn't what trust looks like," Barton replied evenly, tone dark. He paced back across the room, and while she expected him to give Coulson a hand and pull him back to his feet, he only crossed his arms and leered down at his handler.

"Seriously, Phil?" Barton demanded. Coulson placidly wiped a trickle of blood from his nose and flicked his eyes up.

"She already knows about the safe house. I'm not showing her the location of the airfield, too."

"Shitty way to build rapport," Barton retorted.

"There's giving the benefit of the doubt, and then there's stupidity. Sharing classified S.H.I.E.L.D. bases falls under the latter."

Barton actually winced a little at the obvious reprimand, and she suddenly wished she'd punched Coulson harder.

"We don't have time for this," Barton argued, but the effort was halfhearted. She could sense the balance of power shifting. "They're coming for her."

"Then get her secure so we can move," Coulson ordered in clipped tones. Barton stuck out a hand to help him up, but Coulson brushed him aside and stood on his own. The gesture seemed to sting Barton more than the verbal reprimand, although she couldn't understand why he should care about either. His shoulders sagged a little, and when he caught her eye again it was with an apologetic expression.

Natalia resigned herself to Coulson's demands, even though the idea of being willingly restrained went against common sense and years of training. The longer they lingered in the safe house, the twitchier she felt, until the sensation of a trap drawing closed around them was almost overwhelming. Better to get out restrained than be pinned down in a firefight. Coulson had won this round.

Five minutes later and with a significant amount of cajoling from Barton, she was cuffed and blinded to Coulson's specifications, wrists bound behind her back this time with the cuffs painfully tight. They moved side-by-side down the hallway, Barton keeping a tight hold on her arm.

"Aw, come on, Coulson. It's a good look for you. Ladies love a black eye, makes you look dangerous."

Coulson made a disgruntled noise somewhere to her right. She leaned infinitesimally closer to Barton. His good nature seemed to rebound much more quickly.

"Wait here, we'll clear the stairwell," Coulson ordered briskly.

Barton tugged her arm to make her stop. She listened as two pairs of boots and a pair of dress shoes thumped down the metal stairs.

"That won't look good on Coulson's report," she murmured softly.

"Don't feel bad, that was a dick move. He didn't say anything about wanting you blind."

She had been hoping for an indication of how badly she'd ruined her chances at S.H.I.E.L.D., but found herself disappointed. Unless Barton got to file his own report, the sentiment wouldn't help her case very much.

"You said _we_ ," Barton observed when she stayed silent. She could hear the smile behind his words. "You said you're not afraid of your handlers because _we're_ better than they are. Does that make us a team now?"

She hadn't said that. She opened her mouth to tell him as much, but paused as she realized she wasn't sure. She had been frustrated and on edge, she hadn't been choosing her words as carefully as usual. _Had_ she implied they were more-or-less partners?

"Allies," she relented, settling on the term she had chosen to privately describe her relationship with Barton.

"So like a team," he added smugly.

Calls of _all clear_ echoed up the stairwell and Barton started them walking again. They moved quickly down the stairs; Coulson joined them again on the third landing.

"Roderick and Benitez are taking point, thirty second lead time. We'll be in the second car. Barton, I want you in the back."

 _Guarding the prisoner_ , she thought sourly.

"You're our getaway driver?" Barton asked skeptically. "After what happened in Prague?"

"Who told you about Prague?" Coulson demanded.

"What happened in Prague?" Natalia asked, interest piqued. She liked the thought of having dirt on Coulson, especially after seeing Barton's wounded expression in the apartment.

"You don't talk," Coulson snapped. "Clint, it's classified, keep your mouth shut."

Barton snorted and gave her arm a little squeeze, and she took it to mean that he'd fill her in later.

They ran out of stairs and he pulled her to a stop again. She heard guns being primed and felt a sharp draft of icy air, then Barton was dragging her through the snow and guiding her into the back of the car. She had to duck low to get in, and trepidation settled heavily over her as she felt out the cramped interior. She had been hoping for a big armored SUV.

"Scoot," Barton ordered, and slid in beside her rather than walk around to the other side. They were moving before she heard him shut the door.

She memorized Coulson's route by force of habit, rather than because she anticipated needing to find her way back to the safe house. They took two lefts and a right, drove straight with a handful of stops and starts, two more rights, then a long stretch at fast speed. She sat with her side pressed against Barton's, and although he didn't make any outward effort at reassurance or comfort, he didn't move away or ask for more room. It eased her nerves to feel him tensing and shifting beside her, keeping watch for anything suspicious.

Coulson's driving became erratic, too many turns and u-turns for even her to keep track. Possibly trying to throw her off, but she knew in her gut they were being tailed.

"Clint," Coulson said at last.

She felt Barton twist around to look behind.

"Might wanna get down," he said, and shoved her to the floor. She heard a sharp crack from the back windshield and felt the car swing to one side.

The anticipation of being caught was always worse than the actual attack, and she breathed a little easier, although she still longed for her guns and a visual on the car following them, some semblance of control over the situation. She tried to remind herself that she'd chosen to trust Barton, he had taken her down and he could probably handle whoever was after them now. The reasoning did nothing to ease her remaining apprehension.

"Weren't followed, huh?" Coulson asked wryly from the front.

" _I wasn't followed_ ," Barton insisted.

She suddenly remembered why the empty S.H.I.E.L.D. file mattered. It seemed more prudent to keep quiet, especially considering the situation was her fault, but she gave Barton's shin a sharp kick to draw his attention before he and Coulson got into another argument.

"What was that for?" he demanded.

"The smoke from the fire," she told him. "You waved the file out the window."

"Aw, shit," he groaned. "That's how they got us?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't exactly a subtle organization," she pointed out, remembering the stylized eagle and big block letters emblazoned across the front of the file.

"You gave yourselves away?" Coulson asked, tone incredulous bordering on hysterical. "Rookies. I'm stuck with a couple of rookies."

" _You_ trained me," Barton retorted.

Natalia wanted to feel indignant, but considering they'd spent the past sixteen hours fighting like children instead of standing guard and observing the street for enemy agents, she let the insult slide.

Icy air whipped through the car and she heard Barton fire several rounds out the window. She listened hard for an indication that it would be so easy, but only heard Barton reloading the gun and swearing.

She considered asking if she could help, but the prospect of asking Coulson for anything irked her. He didn't strike her as the proud type, the kind to ignore an obvious asset on principle if his agent needed backup. He'd let her help when Barton needed it.

"Take them out, Barton," Coulson pressed.

"I'm trying," he ground out. "I can't crack the windshield. Their car's armored just like ours."

"Then stop aiming for the windshield."

"I need backup," Barton said pointedly. She sat a little straighter in anticipation.

"You didn't need backup when you were blowing your mission."

So Coulson _did_ hold petty grudges. She was clearly giving S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives too much credit.

Barton growled and tugged the hood off her head.

"Slip the cuffs," he snapped, and dropped a gun in her lap. At least one of them had a sense of self-preservation.

" _Clint!_ "

"Drive, Coulson!"

She didn't hesitate long enough to find out if Coulson accepted Barton's plan. Coulson wasn't the one who had to go back to her handlers if they failed.

She shifted and slid her bound hands over the curve of her ass, then drew her knees up and worked her legs through the loop until her hands were in front. It would take more time than they had for her to get the cuffs off. She grabbed the gun and vaulted back into her seat, muscles coiled and tense as she waited for the window on her side to slide down.

"Recognize these guys?" Barton called as she leaned out the window. She could have answered even with the hood still on.

"KGB," she confirmed. Sokolov was in front, the driver she knew by sight but not name, while the two in the back were unfamiliar.

"Guess we're testing your loyalty to S.H.I.E.L.D. sooner than we planned!"

Barton's blind faith didn't leave her much choice in the matter.

She took her first shot, mildly surprised when the bullet grazed Sokolov's arm and forced him back into the car. Barton banged his hand against the roof.

"See that, Coulson? She's on our side!"

She adjusted her aim and fired low, but the car didn't swerve to a stop as she'd expected.

"Don't go for the tires," Barton advised. "I've already tried that. Won't work."

She settled instead for trying to pick them off when the leaned out to return fire. Barton's claim that he never missed a shot proved true, but his accuracy didn't do them much good. They only succeeded in knocking chips into the car's windshield and dinging the paint. Coulson's aggressive driving meant the Russian agents never gained more than half a car length, but they never got close enough to present an achievable target, either.

Natalia's gun clicked empty and Barton slid a new magazine across the roof of their car. She reloaded and began looking for a smarter way out.

Coulson turned sharply around a corner, speeding down a narrow residential street. Barton got a shot in through the driver side window as they swung around, but only managed to punch a hole in the dashboard.

"Blow up the car!" she shouted over the noise of squealing tires, and wondered why they hadn't thought of it sooner. Barton's eyes lit up.

"Is that like your default solution? Blow up the car?"

"We're having bad luck with guys in cars," she called back.

"Cover me!"

He ducked back through the window and emerged half a minute later with his bow and an arrow with a flashing red tip. She lowered her gun in anticipation, ready to slide back into the car as soon as he made the shot, but he seemed to be having problems. She watched him wrestle with the bow and line up the shot three times without taking it. She was careful to force the KGB agents back into their car if they leaned out to shoot, but they wouldn't stay lucky forever.

She spotted the problem as he almost fell head first onto the street. He didn't have room to draw the bow and balance, half hanging out the window.

"Sit and lean backward," she suggested.

"Not that good," Barton admitted.

She slid back into the car and moved to his end of the seat. He seemed to catch on as she braced her feet against his door; he shuffled around and planted his butt on the edge of the window as she'd requested. She looped her hands through his belt and he leaned back, cautiously at first, but once he realized she could more or less hold him he stretched until he could draw the bow fully extended.

"Clint, no," Coulson warned, too late. "Get back in the car!"

The side mirror shattered with a bullet meant for Barton, and Natalia began channeling some of Coulson's stress at the close call.

"It doesn't have to be a pretty shot," she snarled, "just hit them."

"Relax," he chastised. "This is the last prototype. I have to make it count."

She watched him draw a deep, slow breath, and release the arrow as he exhaled. The car jumped into the air behind them. Natalia pulled Barton back inside and followed his lead, kneeling on the seat to watch out the back windshield. The car rolled and flipped before sliding to a stop upside down.

"Not a bad job, considering we're just allies," Barton mused. He grinned and nudged her shoulder.

"You can call us a team," she relented. The adrenaline rush, she noticed, was more satisfying when it included Barton. But they absolutely weren't partners.

"No fire this time," Barton lamented. Coulson turned a corner and they lost sight of the car. They faced forward and sat again.

"Ask for Molotov cocktail arrows," she suggested.

"I like the way you think," he said approvingly, a hint of admiration behind his tone. "Those should be a thing."

"Absolutely not," Coulson interjected. "No more talking. Natalia, give Barton your gun and help him watch for another car."

The order rankled, but she handed off the gun and did as Coulson requested, scanning the traffic around them for another threat.

"Can we lose the handcuffs?" Barton asked. He collapsed his bow and leaned awkwardly into the front, returning it to its case in the passenger seat.

"No," Coulson replied. "She could be a sleeper agent. The men in the car could have been putting on a show, giving her an opportunity to prove her loyalty."

"Bullshit," Barton spat. He threw himself back against the seat, hands full of guns and extra magazines.

"I'm playing devil's advocate here. Let's at least pretend to follow protocol."

"Drop it," Natalia agreed, the nicest way she could think of to tell him to shut up and pay attention. There would be another car. They'd send more than four agents to bring down the Black Widow.

Coulson slowed to move with the flow of traffic, no longer weaving between vehicles and risking wrecks. A black SUV with dark tinted windows caught her attention briefly, but it was across the median going in the opposite direction. She dismissed it and kept scanning the cars behind and the ones entering the highway from side streets, although nothing else struck her as suspicious.

Then the black SUV was coming up fast, and she reached for one of the guns on the seat between them before remembering that Barton and Coulson were calling the shots.

"Give it a minute," Barton said. "They're not acting like the other one. We don't fire first."

Coulson sped up again by degrees until they were back to dodging other motorists and running traffic signals. Natalia fidgeted and eyed the guns, heart hammering and blood pounding heavy in her ears, so exasperated with the S.H.I.E.L.D. bullshit protocols she contemplated snatching one of the guns and taking care of the SUV herself.

"Buckle up," Coulson ordered at last, as the SUV came within six inches of their back bumper. Barton complied immediately and with a noticeable lack of smart remarks, so she did as she was told, too. Coulson slammed the brakes.

She braced for a collision, but the SUV swung around them and blared its horn before speeding forward, still weaving through traffic.

"Assholes," Barton said, and unbuckled his belt. Coulson hummed a suspicious noise.

They wasted long minutes doubling back and looping through identical residential streets before heading at last for the extraction site. Coulson didn't suggest blinding her again, and they spent the rest of the ride in silence, alert and watchful as the cityscape gave way to scattered groups of homes, until they were bumping along a rough dirt road near what was obviously the S.H.I.E.L.D. airfield, although it appeared to be nothing more than a high chainlink fence.

The black SUV waited in front of the gate, parked parallel with the doors open to block entrance. A man stood in front, a gun in each hand.

"Your people knew about the airfield?" Coulson accused. Natalia caught his eye in the rearview mirror and scowled.

"Maybe your agents have loose tongues," she suggested.

"You think they got caught and interrogated?" Barton asked skeptically. "It takes longer than ten minutes to break a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent."

"I could break you in five," she retorted, prickly with nerves. She couldn't yet see who waited to intercept them, but she knew who she hoped it wasn't.

"Keep talkin', sweetheart," Barton warned, and passed her a gun.

"No stunts this time," Coulson said.

He put the back windows down and they leaned out again. As they drew closer she recognized Dimitriyev, one of her handlers. He shouted something unintelligible and opened fire. She smiled then, a predatory gleam behind her eyes. She could still hear his voice growling over the headset, ordering her to burn the children's ward. Too easy.

She fired simultaneously with Barton and two red points blossomed against the creamy white of Dimitriyev's dress shirt, and it was that simple. One of the restrictive chains tethering her to her past was shattered.

Barton held up his hand and mimed a high-five across the roof, but she didn't reciprocate. Her elation dropped away all at once, leaving her chest painfully constricted and her breath short. A second man stepped from the car and raised a semiautomatic.

He locked eyes with her, confusion clouding his expression, and she knew he only hesitated because she looked ridiculous, handcuffed in Barton's pullover with her hair streaming in a knotted mess behind her. She recognized the opportunity as one more stroke of luck they didn't deserve. She tried to press her finger against the trigger, a practiced motion that was second nature by now, but a heavy, paralyzing cold had seeped into her bones and she couldn't do it.

Barton fired instead. She watched, attention sharp and focused, and although the man went down there was no blood. Of course he was wearing body armor. She lined up a head shot she wouldn't take on the pretense of finishing the job, didn't correct the angle as Coulson barreled closer to the gate. Her hands shook and she fired three rounds into the driver side door to save face.

Barton had called it, had known there was someone in the organization she wouldn't be capable of taking down herself.

" _Natalia!_ "

She felt his arms tight around her waist as he hauled her forcefully back into the car. She hit her forehead on the edge of the window, and when the burst of pain and long moment of blank confusion resolved, Barton had her flattened against the seat. She just registered his breath hot on the back of her neck before Coulson accelerated and glass shattered over them, accompanied by a jolt that almost threw them to the floor and a grating metal-on-metal noise.

"You didn't have to cover us," Barton said reprovingly. He pushed up on his elbows and she rolled beneath him until they were almost nose-to-nose. He grinned a little and brushed his fingers against the new bruise forming near her temple. "Did you expect Coulson to get out and open the gate or something?"

Is that what he thought she'd been doing? She swatted his hand away.

"He wasn't dead," she replied. "No blood. He was wearing body armor."

"Well, if he wasn't dead before, he is now," Barton said. He slid to the opposite end of the seat and gave her a hand to sit up. Coulson was speeding through a close-cropped field surrounded by a barbed wire fence, a sleek black jet visible off in the distance. Their super secret airfield was unimpressive.

Behind them, the opposing agents' car burned amid a tangle of twisted chainlink. She looked hard for signs of movement, but saw only heavy black smoke. Barton studied her intently.

"You're bleeding," Natalia pointed out, nodding at the smear of red on his jacket, hoping to distract him. Barton flexed his bicep a little and shrugged.

"Just a graze," he said dismissively. He wouldn't be sidetracked. "Who was he?"

"KGB," she told him, purposefully vague. He knew. He could read her, and she was thankful he kept his told-you-so to himself. The suggestion that she was covering them by lingering too long with her finger on the trigger was for Coulson's benefit.

She hoped he was right about the man being dead.


	6. Welcome Home?

"Nat, come on," Barton urged.

She stood at the top of the metal stairs, eyes fixed on the column of black smoke off in the distance. The vantage point didn't allow her to see as well as she'd hoped. Agents from a second black SUV were moving quickly around the wreckage, but she couldn't identify them, and she couldn't determine if the person they loaded into the back was truly dead or simply unconscious.

"We got him, I swear," he added softly. He rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. She shrugged him off and leaned away.

"You don't know that."

"Cold feet?" Coulson asked. He stomped the dust from his shoes on the bottom step, then climbed briskly up to meet them, having parked their getaway car safely in the hangar.

The airfield was purposefully unimpressive, a packed dirt runway and a hangar disguised as a ramshackle old barn. It was compromised now.

"Found this under the seat," Coulson told Barton, and dropped an arrowhead into his palm. "Doesn't look like S.H.I.E.L.D. tech."

"Homemade," he replied, and pocketed it.

"Just make sure it doesn't detonate this time," Coulson said, an exasperated note behind the words as he pushed past them and boarded the plane. Natalia tried, but couldn't dredge up the interest to ask.

"After all that, you're gonna stand here and give them a clear shot?" Barton pressed, and again she detected the faint undercurrent of impatience in his tone.

She felt a surge of displeasure that he could read her well enough to play on her paranoia. The possibility lodged itself firmly in her thoughts, however, so she spun and followed after Coulson.

She had expected something tactical, not the sleek private jet more suited to CEOs than secret agents. The interior was all plush carpeting and dark wood, large comfortable seats and sofas instead of functional straight-backed chairs with harnesses. Barton stepped onto the plane and kicked the rolling stairs clear, secured the door, then moved to the middle of the cabin and chose a creamy white couch with a window view.

She hesitated, waiting for Coulson to chain her to a seat or toss her in the cargo area, but he disappeared through a door at the front of the cabin without sparing either of them another moment of attention.

"Front row seat for the fireworks," Barton said, and patted the space beside him.

She sat across from him instead, kicking her shoes off and curling in the corner of a leather chair with her gaze fixed on the hangar below. She had expected to feel excitement, or relief, or a monumental shift toward the next chapter of her life, _anything_ besides the same sense of unease and barely-suppressed twinge of nerves that had dogged her from the moment she'd stolen the files on her drive.

The plane rolled forward, engines and thrusters becoming more audible until the nose of the plane tilted up and they were in the air. This was the point she had promised herself she could relax, but she remained tightly wedged in the corner of her seat, eyes flicking from the the window to the door near the front of the cabin and back again. Something seemed off. After years of struggling to escape, a firefight and a car chase was entirely too easy.

"Your guys won't scramble their jets to come shoot us down, right?" Barton asked.

"They don't have jets," she mumbled, oddly stung by Barton's use of the phrase 'your guys'. It shouldn't matter, since she only intended to use S.H.I.E.L.D. to fix her programming, but she wondered briefly if she would always be on the opposite side of an intangible divide, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents versus Barton's stray Russian.

"We've got jets," Barton told her, the faintest hint of pride ringing behind the words. "Those are the good mission, when they assign you a Quinjet. Flying's the best part."

She realized too late that she was expected to contribute to the conversation, that Barton wasn't bragging, but trying to engage her by talking up S.H.I.E.L.D. again. She tried to summon an opinion on flying, but Barton frowned and the moment passed.

"Something about that guy rattled you," he assessed.

The intercom system crackled and an unfamiliar voice rang through the cabin, sparing her from Barton's scrutiny.

" _Cue fireworks in four...three...two..._ "

She pressed her nose to the window and watched the hangar below disintegrate in a fiery, concussive explosion. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't so different from the KGB when it came to compromised assets.

"Let's see 'em get any intel out of that," Barton muttered smugly.

She almost felt insulted. Something akin to indignity roiled in her chest, unbidden.

_...the glory of Soviet supremacy..._

Here was the catch to her easy escape. She shook her head, but couldn't dislodge the echoing phrase.

_...the glory of Soviet supremacy..._

They had never allowed her to go after S.H.I.E.L.D., but once she was on base, she had no doubt that Barton would see how dangerous the KGB could be. She wouldn't stand a chance in combat, but she could hack their systems and leak enough intel to cripple the organization.

_...one of twenty-eight Black Widow agents..._

She made an effort to suppress the idea, but it made her head pound, a different kind of pain from the ache where she'd knocked her forehead on the edge of the car window. It was easier to move with the line of reasoning, endure the thoughts that were a product of too much conditioning.

_...one of twenty-eight Black Widow agents..._

What S.H.I.E.L.D. lacked in skilled operatives, they made up for in numbers, and that was the only reason they were at the top of the list of intelligence organizations. Most of their agents were sloppy and undisciplined by her standards, security risks. They were too wrapped up in protocol and procedures to make critical mission-winning decisions. She didn't have much intel on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s training program, but nothing could turn out perfectly compliant operatives like the Red Room. Most importantly, S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't have a Black Widow.

_...the glory of Soviet supremacy..._

Except now they did, she reminded herself, and defecting had been her choice, and she had shot Dimitriyev without a second thought.

She rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the headache to go away.

"You feeling okay, Red?"

Barton's voice cut through the intrusive thoughts, concern tempered with another teasing nickname.

"Natalia," she said sharply, then winced a little at her tone. "Not Nat, or Red, or sweetheart. I won't tell you again."

"Yeah, okay," he agreed cautiously. "Natalia."

Remorse immediately twisted her gut, but she made an effort to bury the knee-jerk emotion under a technical analysis of her situation. Barton was one of the handful of people who had ever showed her kindness without an ulterior motive. It wasn't wise to alienate him, especially heading into a S.H.I.E.L.D. base. A base which she absolutely wouldn't exploit, training and conditioning be damned.

"Sorry," she told him, the apology justified in her mind as a survival technique. She was careful to be sincere this time.

"Nah, you've had a shit couple days," Barton said easily. "Look, you need to tell me if Mr. Body Armor did something. If he triggered something up here," he clarified, and tapped a finger against his temple. It was a fair assumption, so she didn't begrudge him the concern, only shook her head.

"It's not that easy to trip my programming," she reassured him, and hoped she was right.

He had obviously been anticipating a stronger reaction, probably expected her to take offense after snapping at him unprovoked. He visibly relaxed, slumping in his seat and kicking his boots off.

"What is it, then?"

She struggled with the words, unaccustomed to admitting weaknesses aloud. How could she explain the instinctual impulse to defend her old agency while at the same time wanting nothing more than to burn it to the ground? How could she bring herself to tell him about the echoed mantra that dogged her consciousness every time she wandered too far from the prescribed mission parameters?

"I still belong to them," she said at last, and averted her eyes to the window. She didn't want to see pity reflected in Barton's expression, as she had the night before. "It doesn't feel any different."

"I don't think you've belonged to them for a long time," he replied simply. There was no overblown effort at comfort, no expressions of sympathy, just a statement of his opinion. She liked him a little more for it. "You'll figure it out."

There was nothing to figure out, but she didn't tell Barton that, choosing instead to let the conversation lapse into silence. She had worked out years ago that she was more Natalia and less the Black Widow the longer she spent away from the main KGB compound. The past few months were a blur of missions and blood and assassinations, but she was more herself than she could ever remember being, and she hadn't been forced into Madame's presence once since her last reprogramming.

_Kill, Natalia._

Madame's voiced caressed the inside of her head now, as if on cue, crooning an order she had followed more times than she could count. They had trained her to be patient, to suppress base impulses like pain and hunger and want. She simply turned the training to her advantage and let the words ring in her ears without acting on them, an old skill, one she hadn't had to use in months.

_Kill, Natalia._

She flicked her eyes to Barton, slouched in his seat, nose buried in a magazine with a Ferrari on the cover. Sure, kill Barton. She rolled her eyes and scowled at the clouds. She'd tried that already, thanks.

_Kill, Natalia._

If they were so eager for her to kill, perhaps she would come back once S.H.I.E.L.D. fixed her brain. She would take Madame and demonstrate every technique they'd ever taught her in the Red Room. Yes, she liked the idea of that. Madame would realize the only way out was to give the order. _Kill, Natalia_ , and she would.

"Natalia," Barton demanded sharply. Her vision slid back into focus and she caught a quick glimpse of her reflection in the window, predatory scowl and a dark gleam behind her eyes. "You checked out again."

"Just tired," she lied, but Barton's lips pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows drew together, and she knew he hadn't bought it.

"Nice work," Coulson announced. Barton shifted his attention to a point behind her, and she turned to watch Coulson as he closed the door that led to the front of the plane and walked briskly back to their chosen seats. He carried two bottles of water and a tablet. Once he drew even with them he offered Barton one of the bottles, then held out the other to her. "Both of you."

She glanced quickly behind again, sure there was another ambush coming, but the cabin was empty except for the three of them. She turned her attention back to Coulson, wary and unmoving.

"Think you blew it with the..." Barton said, and mimed throwing a hood over someone's head.

Coulson frowned a little and gave a soft sigh. He slid the bottle of water into the cup holder on her armrest instead.

"Either of you hurt?"

"I could probably use a band-aid," Barton said. He peeled off his jacket to examine his arm. "And an ice pack. She hit her head."

"Doesn't hurt anymore," she lied, and pretended to watch the clouds.

"Cancel the ice," Barton amended with an exasperated sigh.

She watched from the corner of her eye as Coulson retrieved a first aid kit from an overhead compartment. He passed it off to Barton, then took a shiny silver key from his jacket pocket and turned his attention back to her.

"Maybe I was wrong before," Coulson said kindly.

Nothing good ever came from a superior admitting they were at fault.

_Kill, Natalia._

And she considered it for half a second. She wasn't sure if it was her conditioning or survival instincts talking.

Coulson moved forward to take the seat beside her, but she pinned him with a hard stare and he seemed to think better of it. He held out a hand instead, nodded at her bound wrists.

"I think you've earned a few hours of freedom," he offered.

More manipulation. She did want the cuffs off, but she loathed the thought of letting Coulson win. She held his gaze and contemplated her next move.

"I know about Lola," she said coolly, and although there wasn't anything inherently menacing about the words, Coulson took a step back.

"Are you threatening my car?" he demanded, and shot Barton an incredulous glance.

"It's all she's got on you," Barton said with a shrug. He tore open an alcohol wipe and began dabbing at the wound on his arm, having stripped down to a tight sleeveless undershirt. "Just back off, Phil. I don't think she wants to play nice right now."

"This should be a fun couple weeks," Coulson muttered. She expected him to leave, and was even casting her mind around for disdainful names to think at him while he retreated, but he threw her off and sat beside Barton. "Natalia, I realize this attitude is my fault. You cooperated beautifully in the safe house until I... _blew it_." His mouth turned down distastefully at the borrowed phrase. "But you have to understand I was looking out for my team. I couldn't be sure about your intentions or loyalty, so I took precautions. Unfounded precautions, as it turns out, and I'm sorry, but we have to work together now if we're going to convince the Council to keep Clint and let you join S.H.I.E.L.D."

She continued to regard him silently, because that sort of thing always made people uncomfortable. Coulson's kind expression slipped for a moment before he switched tactics.

"Can we collect any personal belonging for you? Do you have a home or an apartment? I could send a team out to pack everything up."

She arched one skeptical brow and let the corner of her mouth pull down.

She had a handful of bolt holes and safe houses of her own, each stocked with a wardrobe of functional clothing and medical supplies and a cache of weapons, but S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly wasn't going to learn about them. There was nothing of sentimental value there, anyway. She had her best pair of guns and her favorite knife, and the flash drive, and that was good enough.

"Okay," Coulson murmured, and passed a hand tiredly over his face. "This is fine for now, but you have to talk once we're on base. Your first interview is scheduled at noon tomorrow with Agent Hill and Director Fury. It's an important one, so you'll need to be cooperative." He turned to Barton and dropped the tablet on his lap. "Clint, I want your mission report logged and ready for review before we touch down. You two get your stories straight and be ready for questions. Memorize that report before you submit it."

Barton grunted in response, preoccupied trying to stick a band-aid on one handed. Now she saw it cleaned up, Natalia would barely classify the bullet graze as a scratch.

"I mean it, Clint. Everything by-the-books until this is over." Coulson stood and laid the handcuff key on the seat next to Barton. "You guys don't make a bad team," he added. "You did well."

"I keep telling her that," Barton replied. He caught her eye and gave her a little smile, then nodded briefly in Coulson's direction. She scowled and flicked her eyes back to the window, unwilling to acknowledge the compliment just because Barton wanted everyone to get along.

"Coulson's not all bad, you know," Barton admonished, when Coulson had retreated back to the front of the plane. He leaned forward and she held out her wrists so he could unlock the handcuffs. "You want those wrapped?"

The too-tight cuffs paired with their acrobatics in the car had left her wrists scraped and oozing blood. She hadn't noticed, but as Barton pointed it out, they began to sting.

"We know we did well," she argued. "Why do we need Agent Coulson's validation?"

Barton took her non-answer for agreement and began lifting more supplies from the first aid kit.

"Because it's nice to be appreciated by the people you care about?"

She felt her respect for Barton dip a tiny increment. He was broaching ass-kissing territory, and she had no patience for those types.

"I don't care about Coulson at all," she said indifferently.

"Yeah, but he's trying. You get where he's coming from." He went to work on her wrists, frowning a little as he cleaned away the blood. "I know at least one person in the last twenty-whatever years praised you for doing something well."

"Praise is manipulation," she told him, because she genuinely couldn't remember a kind word that didn't have an ulterior motive behind it. "Expressions of disappointment are manipulation. Coulson doesn't care about you as a individual, he cares about how he can use you as an asset. The moment you showed him that his opinion mattered, he had a way to control you."

"Maybe you don't get it," he replied, a little sadly. His hands lingered on her forearm, one thumb absently smoothing the fresh bandages. His touch wasn't altogether unpleasant, and she felt the tension in her chest uncoil. Weakness.

She pulled away and sat straight in her chair.

"You didn't notice what he did in the safe house?" she challenged, and Barton's expression shifted into harder lines.

"Drop it," he warned.

"You _did_ see it, and you let him. He called you stupid, or implied it, by saying giving away the safe house was stupid. Your intelligence must be an insecurity. He played on that, and when you offered to help him up, he refused. You're Coulson's good little asset, so when he ordered you to cuff me and put the hood on, you complied rather than be reprimanded and rejected a third time. I thought you were competent enough to see how they use us."

"That isn't how Coulson operates," Barton insisted tiredly, as if he was resigned to arguing in circles with her the entire flight.

She angled her body away and went back to staring at the patchwork of fields and towns below. The longer they spent together, the more she disliked Barton's anger and frustration being directed at her. Preferring smiles to scowls was the first indicator the relationship was growing dangerous.

Becoming attached to his company would only end in disappointment. What would happen when they got back to S.H.I.E.L.D.? He might stick around long enough to get her cleared of suspicion, might even be ordered to show her around the base, but he wouldn't voluntarily choose her over his friends and colleagues.

"You shouldn't listen to him," she said, surprised by her own words. She told herself she was playing on Barton's insecurity the same way Coulson had, only with the intent to weigh his loyalty toward her. A smaller voice, silenced in an instant, insisted she was trying to return his kindness. "Intelligence isn't quantified by test scores or years of instruction. Intelligence is how you choose to apply what you've learned, and you seem very good at that."

"How d'you figure?" he said suspiciously.

"You outsmarted me, convinced me to join S.H.I.E.L.D. You convinced Coulson to give me a chance. You know how to influence people. And the arrows, you weren't lying when you said you don't miss. That takes more raw talent that shooting a gun, but it's also a technical skill. The prototype arrows must be weighted differently than normal ones. You have to compensate for that to be able to shoot accurately, and that means mental calculations, difficult ones, done under fire and hanging out of cars. I don't think I could do it."

"What's the angle?" he asked, although he seemed pleased with her assessment.

"No angle," she assured him. And then, because perhaps she was coming off a little too nice, "You just looked like a kicked puppy back in the safe house."

"I got that a lot growing up," Barton admitted, "mostly from my dad. 'Stupid kid', 'dumb little shit', 'did Edith drop you on your head when I wasn't looking?'. But you're wrong about Coulson. He wouldn't throw something like that in my face on purpose. If I brought it up, he'd apologize."

"Of course he would," she agreed, exasperation creeping into her tone. "He wants to keep you loyal. The apology wouldn't be sincere."

"Let's agree to disagree on this one," Barton suggested. He went back to prowling through the first aid kit until he came up with a bottle of pills. He shook two into his hand and chased them with water. "And you totally get how it works. Those things you just said? You were being nice, on purpose. The hardass KGB thing is all an act."

"I was manipulating you," she insisted. "Just like Coulson."

"Sure, sweetheart," he said, and rolled his eyes a little. He passed her the bottle. "Go on, it's just ibuprofen."

She didn't feel the need to examine the pills, but she studied the seal on her water with a critical eye until Barton made an impatient, exasperated noise. She took the medicine as requested and gave the bottle back.

"The Black Widow isn't nice," she countered.

"Maybe not, but Natalia can be, when she tries." He began packing up the first aid kit. "It's okay to want someone on your side."

She didn't want to want Barton's company, but she couldn't deny he was right. It was pleasant to have a second person to keep watch while she slept, someone competent to back her up in a fight, someone pushing her to bandage scrapes and take painkillers when she would never choose to cultivate weakness that way on her own.

She huffed derisively and curled in her chair again, angling away from Barton as much as possible while being sat across from him.

Barton didn't comment further, and they rode in silence. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window as the throbbing behind her eyes gradually dulled. She let exhaustion roll over her in sweeping waves. Sleep wouldn't come, she knew better than to expect that, but she closed her eyes anyway. It only made her feel more jumpy. She found herself listening hard for footsteps drawing in behind her or the sound of Coulson entering the cabin.

She gave up and turned her attention back to Barton at what sounded suspiciously like a candy wrapper. He was occupied with an iPod and another car magazine, and he had a chocolate bar, the good stuff, Swiss and dark from the look of the packaging. Contraband, if his claim that they were only allowed water and protein bars was true.

Jealously burned in her chest, not so much over the chocolate, but because he seemed so damned happy and relaxed; she'd never been good at relaxing, especially coming off missions. She wasn't a snitch, so she went back to watching the clouds, pointedly ignoring the sharp snap the chocolate made as Barton broke off a piece and popped it in his mouth. He repeated the action twice more before she felt his eyes on her.

She gave in and glanced in his direction. He arched one eyebrow, a silent question, and held out the chocolate. She shrugged a little and held out her hand.

He proved greedy, only breaking off one of the tiny pre-portioned sections and dropping it into her palm. She went back to staring out the window and let the chocolate melt on her tongue.

He didn't offer again, and she listened to him work his way through the bar, _snap snap snap snap_ , until she realized his game. He was teasing, trying to lure her into interacting, but surprisingly she found she didn't mind. That didn't mean she wanted to play along.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking to share, but it _was_ damn good chocolate. Maybe she could fight him for it, or steal another piece while he wasn't looking. She turned a little in her seat and cut her eyes to the door at the front of the cabin, hesitated for a moment, then transferred herself to the open space beside Barton, although she was careful to keep enough distance between them so they weren't actually touching.

"Sweet tooth, huh?" he mumbled, and grinned down at his magazine. He offered the rest of the bar. "No catch, just don't let Coulson see if he comes back."

 _Sweet tooth_ was an understatement, but Barton had no business knowing her likes and dislikes so she kept her mouth shut. She ate the rest of the bar slowly, letting each piece melt on her tongue, not chomping it as Barton had.

She couldn't recall a single instance of someone sharing without a hidden agenda, but found that she enjoyed half of Barton's chocolate bar more than she would have a whole one of her own. By the time the bar was gone she felt better, less concerned about Coulson and her handlers and the fact that the mutual silence with Barton was more comfortable than it should have been.

"The man at the gate," she began, hesitant but resolved to broach the topic. Thanking Barton for the chocolate seemed an awkward thing to do, made her feel childish, but information was a currency she could understand. She smoothed the empty foil wrapper against her leg and began pressing the wrinkles out for something to do with her hands. Ordinarily she would turn to field stripping her guns and reassembling them to draw out nervous energy.

"You're not obligated to tell me," Barton said, but he folded the magazine closed and laid it aside, tugged the headphones from his ears, and she knew he was curious.

"Our deal was no lies," she said quietly. "You were right, I guess. He didn't purposefully trigger anything, but seeing him again... I hear them telling me to do things. It's better if I stay away. I've been taking back-to-back assignments for the past two years."

"No breaks?"

"If I take time off I have to go back, and if I go back it starts again. They get in my head."

"So you have orders planted in your subconscience?"

It was a very good guess, and it put her on guard for a moment before she remembered Barton had run into one of the Red Room girls before. She was still curious about that, but didn't want to ask him outright.

"It's whispers. Suggestions. Reminders of where we come from."

" _We_?"

"The girls in the program. You said you'd met one before."

It wasn't meant to be manipulation, just a throwaway attempt at leading the conversation. Barton studied her for a moment.

"Blonde hair, creepy blue eyes, little scar above one eyebrow?"

"Katya," Natalia said at once. She had given the girl that scar.

"Katya," Barton repeated. He tried to fit his tongue around the correct pronunciation and failed, unable to mimic the way she accented the syllables. "We never got her name."

"She was weak," Natalia said dismissively. The lie she told herself to bury the sting of the truth. "They used her as an initial test of the new programming. That was at least ten years ago."

"Couple years after Coulson brought me in, I guess," Barton added. "I was still tagging along on most of his ops."

"How did S.H.I.E.L.D. catch her?"

"She approached two of our agents in Lyon, claimed she'd escaped a sex trafficking ring. Couldn't have been older than thirteen or fourteen. Something about her story didn't add up and they dragged her to the closest secure base. Coulson's good at reading people, so they brought him in to evaluate her."

"You went, too?"

"Yeah, they weren't giving me solo jobs yet. Coulson interviewed her first, but she wouldn't talk. We tried a good-cop-bad-cop approach next. That didn't work either, but we kept at it. She didn't want food or water, she didn't respond to threats, she didn't cry or beg to go home. She just sat at the interview table. Three days later me and Coulson were still trying to get _something_ out of her, and this noise came over the intercoms. High-pitched, like a dog whistle. Her eyes went blank. She checked out for half a minute, then she snapped. Put Coulson on his ass, took his fancy fountain pen as a weapon and came after me."

"Did you fight her?" Natalia asked interestedly.

"You can't fight little girls," Barton scoffed. "I was trying to get out of the interrogation room and she stabbed me in the throat with the stupid pen."

He indicated a faint scar on the side of his neck, nowhere near the jugular. It was a sloppy attempt.

"Did she clear the facility?"

"She didn't kill anyone, just took down a bunch of guards and ran. Snipers got her before she made it to the fence."

"That was her mission," Natalia told him. "She was supposed to get caught, talk her way into a S.H.I.E.L.D. base. The KGB hacked your communication systems to play the sound that would trigger her programming. She was supposed to kill everyone and retrieve intel."

"There wasn't any intel at the base in Lyon," Barton said, and shook his head. "It's tiny, just a field office."

"They knew that. Katya was expendable. It was only meant to be a test run."

"What made her _expendable_?"

He spat the word.

"The scar," Natalia said. Her voice was smaller than she intended, halting and tentative. "It was an identifying feature. Someone could have recognized her in the field."

"That's bullshit," Barton muttered heatedly.

Perhaps he had thought to save Katya the same way he was trying to redeem her. If so, it must have proved a hard lesson.

"I liked Katya," Natalia admitted softly. Barton studied her curiously and she went back to pressing wrinkles out of the chocolate wrapper. "She wasn't kind, but she wasn't as bad as some of the others. I was sorry when they chose her."

"So you were friends," Barton assessed. Natalia chewed her lip and considered.

She had never thought of the girls as friends. Some were better than others at fighting, some were manipulative and mean by nature, while others, like Katya, like _her_ , had simply realized the reality of their situation and become quick studies in the interest of survival.

"No," she said at last. "We just put a little less effort behind trying to kill each other than we did the other girls."

Barton's hand twitched, a quick jerky motion that put her guard up and had her leaning away, ready to counter, before reasoning caught up with instincts. Barton blew out a heavy sigh and shook his head.

"You tell Director Fury that one tomorrow," he said. His hand found the tablet Coulson had left. "About Katya's mission. It's always annoyed him that we never got anything out of her."

"If you think it'll help," she agreed.

"It's a good place to start," Barton said. He spent a moment jabbing his fingers against the tablet, groaned a little, and stuck one of his headphones back in. "You can pick the first one. And you're welcome to help write my mission report, too."

He held out his iPod and the other tiny headphone.

Offering input on Barton's report didn't strike her as particularly fun, but she liked music well enough and it would be interesting to read over his shoulder. The task would also keep the ghosts at bay. She relented and wedged the headphone in her ear, then took his iPod and began scrolling through his playlists. Barton lifted the pressed chocolate wrapper from her knee and folded it carefully into his jacket pocket.

The iPod had hundreds of playlists, all with ridiculous titles that gave her zero indication of what type of music she would find. She put the thing on shuffle instead and scooted closer to Barton to read about the beginning of his mission. He had started in Moscow eighteen days ago, she learned as the _Eagles_ played in her ear, and his informant had missed their first scheduled meeting. She kept a mental tally of holes she could fill in (she could probably confirm that their informant was dead) and questions she wanted to ask, but didn't interrupt.

The report grew boring, Barton listing protocol codes he had followed before striking out on his own to track her. An inordinate amount of protocol codes, numbers and letters and approximate timestamps. He listed the series of events that led up to him choosing each action, and Natalia grew so disinterested that she slid down to mirror Barton's relaxed position and tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. The iPod landed on a track of ambient thunderstorm noises.

"Hey, Nat?"

She woke slowly, a lazy sense of contentment threatening to drag her back under. When she opened her eyes, she found herself curled into Barton's side, head resting against his shoulder. Her first instinct was to push away and retreat to her own chair, but that implied embarrassment. She took a moment to examine their position instead. Barton's stance was relaxed, slumped low on the sofa with legs stretched out, both hands on the tablet as he played a first-person shooter. By her best assessment, he had simply let her get comfortable and hadn't bothered to make her move.

"We're close," he said, and shrugged a little to dislodge her. "Half an hour out."

"You could have woken me up," she told him, playing unrepentant. She stretched and moved back to her seat, hoping he didn't notice the faint traces of heat she could feel in her cheeks. Barton grinned and laid the tablet aside.

"Coulson tried to make me. He came back and wanted to go another round, but I told him to fuck off. After that I let you sleep on principle."

The sky outside had turned dim and purple. She could just make out a series of faint winking lights on the horizon.

"Miss anything important?"

"Well, you were right about the airfield. One of our guys talked. Wilkes got himself caught and gave up everything in about thirty seconds. They didn't kill him, just knifed him a little and dumped him in an alley. In a hurry to find you, I guess."

She wished she'd been awake to deliver a told-you-so to Coulson.

"So where's your base?" she asked. They were clearly approaching the East coast, and if they were only a half hour away, it had to be one of the major cities situated near the ocean. It hadn't mattered before, but it suddenly seemed much more prudent to know where she'd be locked up. "Or is that classified?"

"D.C.," Barton answered easily. "Tallest building in the city, smack in the middle of the Potomac. You can't miss it. Surprised you can't see the damn thing from here. Like you said, S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't a subtle organization."

She put her shoes on again and watched Barton do the same, all the time expecting Coulson to come sweeping back through with restraints and orders. She sat on the edge of her chair, a little twinge of nerves starting in her chest as they drew closer to the coastline. By the time she could pick out individual buildings, her stomach churned with butterflies and she was contemplating how difficult it would be to breach the door at the front of the cabin to take the plane.

"There it is," Barton announced, and tapped a finger against his window. "The Triskelion."

It was lit up brighter than any building she could recall, and she'd been in an astounding number of major cities. The light pollution cast by the S.H.I.E.L.D. base was almost garish. There was no activity, however. No cars coming or going across the bridge, no air traffic, no boats or barges on the water.

The plane slowed and flew straight for the tallest portion of the building, and she had a moment of confusion before Barton spoke up.

"We can do vertical landings," he told her. "We just didn't want the Russians knowing all our secrets."

He was definitely bragging now. She cast her mind around for a retort, something to wipe the smug expression off his face, but then she noticed the agents ranged on the roof of the building and snarking at Barton became unimportant.

She counted quickly as the plane's thrusters cut and it bumped to a soft landing. Sixteen agents, all dressed in riot gear and aiming their weapons at the pair of windows she and Barton were watching from.

"What a bunch of assholes," Barton scowled. He slammed the shade down on his window, then reached across and closed hers as well.

She startled at the noise, heart in her throat and blood pounding heavy in her ears. This was more than recruitment. She'd walked right into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s trap. Been led into it.

Coulson entered the cabin and she was on her feet, expecting an attack, or an ambush, or reinforcements to follow him from the front of the plane. She backed straight into Barton, rounded on him instead, fists clenched and breath coming short. _Barton_ had dragged her here, and oh, he was good at his job. Maybe even better than her at wearing masks and adopting personas.

"I take it you saw the welcome wagon," Coulson said drily.

She turned her back on Barton as Coulson spoke, a stupid move, but she was in so deep it didn't make much difference.

"Hey," Barton mumbled quietly, "look at me, Natalia." He caught her arm and spun her to face him, lifted her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. Every muscle drew taut, but she didn't counter. "Don't worry about those guys. Nothing bad's going to happen. You trust me, right?"

Did she? He had backed her up so many times in the past two days that she'd lost count. He had done everything to avoid carrying out his mission. She recalled his patience and the surprisingly gentle way he had of wrapping bandages. She hadn't found a reason to put a knife through him yet.

He rested his hands solidly on her shoulders, waiting for her answer. She felt her resolve waver at the soft, kind expression behind his eyes. She wanted to trust him, needed to believe she wasn't playing into a trap.

"Yes," she replied, truthfully but grudgingly.

"When you're ready," Coulson said. He stepped from the plane and she heard a volley of indistinguishable shouting before the door shut behind him.

"We've got all night," Barton offered. "We can sit for a while."

Tempting, but no. Cowardice wasn't Natalia, and it certainly wasn't the Black Widow. Better to get it over with.

"You can sit," she snapped. She willed the tremor from her hands and forced herself to cross the cabin to the door. She stopped just short of opening it. Barton followed, shaking his head in exasperation. She caught him rolling his eyes, too.

"I promised Coulson you could behave without the handcuffs," he said, and placed a hand on the latch. "Don't make me a liar."

Barton pushed the door open and she stood frozen for a moment, taking in the scene on the roof.

Coulson waited at the bottom of the stairs, exuding an aura of disinterested calm as the sharp click of sixteen guns being primed to fire echoed around him. She tried to assess the situation, plan a way out, just for peace of mind, but came up blank. The only escape route was the plane, and she didn't know the first thing about flying. Barton tugged her arm to get her moving, fingers digging in just above her elbow.

She couldn't see the agents' eyes, they were wearing too much protective gear, but she slowly swept a hard gaze over each one anyway as they went to join Coulson. Two had twitchy trigger fingers. One actually backed away when she stepped onto the roof. She felt her nerves dissipate a little as Barton snorted a laugh beside her.

Coulson led them across the roof and through a door into a stairwell. They lost four guards, and by the time they made the flight of stairs and emerged into a corridor, another four had broken off.

The interior of the building was silent, the corridor a drab grey with rows of doors painted in a slightly darker hue. There were no other agents in the hallways, no sign of Director Fury or the Council. They reached an elevator bank. Five of the remaining guards wedged into the elevator behind Barton, effectively pinning them against the back wall, rifles aimed at their heads.

"Containment," Coulson said. He elbowed around the guards to scan an I.D. badge at a sensor by the door. "Security protocol 6-3-8-6-Alpha."

The elevator dropped smoothly, a quiet mechanical ping announcing each floor they passed.

"Alright, cut the crap, guys," Barton said. "Benson, I know it's you, I'd recognize your skinny ass anywhere."

The agent aiming his rifle between Natalia's eyes lowered his weapon and pulled off his helmet, revealing tousled dark hair and a sheepish expression. He was young, younger even than Natalia.

"Sorry, Clint," he mumbled to the floor.

"Damn straight you're sorry. I didn't train you to be rude to new recruits."

He nudged Natalia with his elbow to get her attention.

"That's Benson. I got stuck doing remedial sniper training as punishment once. He was my first victim. And we've got..." He studied the group carefully before lifting a finger to point. "Perez and Hansen."

Two more helmets came off, the men underneath closer to Barton's age. Two more rifles aimed at the floor.

"She's really on our side?"

"You're in deep shit, Barton," the tallest of the five, Perez, said, followed by a low rumble of laughter.

The next agent unmasked herself with no prompting from Barton, shaking out blonde curls where the helmet had flattened them.

"She do that to your face?" the woman asked interestedly.

"Yeah," Barton admitted, and grinned in a self-deprecating way.

"Nice," the woman said appreciatively, and shot Natalia an appraising glance. She shifted her rifle and stuck out a hand. "Sharon Carter. You must be good if you took down Barton."

Coulson caught her eye and gave her an encouraging nod. Barton arched an expectant eyebrow.

"Natalia," she said, and shook Carter's hand. She felt awkward, having never been formally introduced to enemy agents carrying rifles before.

"These are our guys," Coulson told her. "Agents Director Fury knows aren't in the Council's pocket. They'll be taking the guard shifts outside your room."

Barton turned to the fifth agent, the last one still wearing full gear.

"Come on, Rumlow. You're killin' the vibe."

"I don't take orders from you, Barton," came the scathing growl. He hitched his rifle up a little higher.

"Little ray of sunshine over there's Brock Rumlow," Barton told her, then addressed the other agents again. "Anyway, here's your Black Widow. You've met her, so try to keep the office gossip to a minimum."

"But the memo said she-" Benson began, then clamped his mouth shut.

"Memo came down from the Council to the agents assigned to the welcoming committee," Carter said. She looked from Coulson to Barton. "Made it sound like both of you were being hauled in for treason. I believe the phrases they used to describe her were 'unstable' and 'contract killer' and 'prone to unprovoked violence'."

"One outta three," Barton shrugged. "But she only works S.H.I.E.L.D. contracts now."

The elevator dinged a final time and the doors slid open. The corridor was empty and silent, with rows of reinforced steel doors running along each side.

A new kind of dread settled over her. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had two factions, Council-loyal and director-loyal, which side was she supposed to choose? And why were the agents who chose Director Fury's side allowed to live, much less continue working in the organization, if the Council held more power? Dissent wasn't tolerated in the KGB hierarchy.

They filed from the elevator, flanked by two agents on each side with Rumlow in the rear, pointedly aiming his gun at the back of her head. Despite Coulson's assurance otherwise, she had a suspicion that Rumlow was Council all the way.

They didn't speak again until Barton paused in front of one of the identical, windowless steel doors. Coulson swiped his I.D. badge and entered a pin on the keypad, a heavy locking mechanism scraped back, and he pulled the door open.

The cell wasn't the smallest she'd ever been in, roughly twelve feet square. There was a cot with a pillow and two neatly folded blankets, but otherwise no furniture, which meant nothing she could use as a weapon. She noticed a tiny surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling, the only means of seeing the interior of the cell. No windows or intercoms or even a slot in the door to slip meals through. No easily-exploitable weaknesses.

"Just until your first interview tomorrow," Barton reassured her, a slight apologetic edge to his tone. "They'll move you upstairs after that."

She balked a moment too long. He laid a hand across the small of her back and guided her into the cell, then surprisingly stepped in after her. He moved to sit on the edge of the cot and she trailed behind. This time when she sat beside him, she positioned herself close enough that their shoulders brushed.

"You can tell time by the guards' shift change, every twelve hours, 0630 and 1830. You'll be able to hear them in the corridor. The lights go off and on automatically. Lights out at 2100, wake up at 0500. If you need anything, you can bang on the door and ask whoever's on guard duty."

"Thanks," she told him softly. She was certain he wasn't supposed to be sharing the information.

"Just don't freak out, okay? It might be Hill or Coulson who come get you for the first interview tomorrow; I'm scheduled with the Council at the same time. If they want you in handcuffs, you have to let them. It's all protocol. You can't go off punching agents now we're on base. Got it?"

"Fine," she agreed.

"That doesn't sound very convincing," Barton pressed. He bumped his shoulder against hers.

"I'll cooperate," she amended, and rolled her eyes.

"Let's try to stay out of trouble for a while. We're already up shit creek without a paddle."

She wrinkled her nose and arched a brow at the unfamiliar expression.

"Fucked," Barton supplied, and chuckled a little. She felt one corner of her mouth pull up into a tiny smile, unbidden. "That's better. What about food? I can run up to the cafeteria and grab dinner if you want. They do good pasta and chicken parm."

It seemed too good to be true. None of her captives had ever allowed her food, much less visitors. She flicked her eyes to the door, still standing open, cool air from the hallway wafting in to chill the room. She could see the agents with their rifles loitering in the hall, but they didn't seem intent on dragging Barton out on fraternization charges.

"Breadsticks, too?" she asked tentatively.

 _Don't buy it_ , she warned herself.

Barton's expression lit up at her interest.

"Garlic knots. _Way_ better. And I'll get the tablet from Coulson. We can have dinner and a movie, a little welcome-to-S.H.I.E.L.D. party."

"I don't think incarceration is supposed to be a party," she replied.

"Shows what you know," Barton retorted. He patted her leg and gave her an encouraging smile. "Sit tight, I'll be right back."

He crossed the cell in four long strides and slipped into the corridor. The door didn't slam with a clang as she expected, only locked into place with a soft click and a beep from the keypad outside, but it didn't prevent a little coil of anxiety from dropping into her stomach. She shuffled to her left a bit more, finding the warm spot Barton had left behind, although to the security camera it would just appear as if she was moving to the center of the cot. She chastised herself for the weakness, but didn't shift positions.

She waited half an hour, unmoving, eyes on the door, before she began to feel suspicious. By the time the lights went out in the cell she was convinced Barton wasn't coming back.

_Kill, Natalia._


	7. Debt & Payment

Natalia longed to pace the interior of the cell, but suppressed the impulse in favor of remaining still and silent. Easier to hear if anyone approached the door. She hadn't decided what would happen if someone besides Barton entered.

Her thoughts refused to fall into order. One moment she was convinced Barton had lured her into the cell with no intention of returning, then she found herself concerned about his safety and what the absence implied.

She felt a brief stab of remorse as she recalled the injuries she'd given him. He was already hurt, and if they chose to punish him for helping her... She chewed her lip and tasted blood. What was the S.H.I.E.L.D. penalty for deviating from mission parameters?

It was near midnight by her best estimate, and she was grateful Barton had let her sleep on the plane. If she continued to trust him, if she decided his kindness was authentic, a rescue attempt should happen sooner rather than later.

It had taken her a grand total of fifteen minutes to plan an escape. The cot wasn't bolted to the floor, another instance of S.H.I.E.L.D. being sloppy, and it would be simple enough to flip it on end in the corner and climb up to disable the security camera. Despite the pitch blackness of the cell, the camera had to be sending a video feed somewhere, probably in night vision hues of green and black. Guards would be sent in, either to repair the camera or move her to a cell with one that functioned. The door would be opened. She could make the corridor outside.

Success depended on which of the agents waited in the hallway.

Rumlow seemed the type to let aggression dictate his combat choices. He would be easy to outsmart and outmaneuver. The kid, Benson, she could probably make him shit his pants just by spitting a little Russian at him. The other two men hadn't made much of an impression, ex-military maybe. Their fighting styles would be predictable, an annoyance rather than a challenge. Carter was the wildcard.

Carter was appraising and sharp, more spy than soldier if she had to take a guess. Carter would be expecting her to make a play. Carter could be dealt with, but there was no way to gauge the woman's combat skills and know how much time she could expect to waste in a fight.

She hadn't noticed if the agents carried I.D. badges like Coulson's. She felt certain she would have to find one if she wanted to leave the Containment level. Did every elevator ride require a badge swipe, or just trips to secure floors? She remembered the code Coulson used to make the elevator drop. Security protocol 6-3-8-6-Alpha. She wasn't sure how effective it would be in moving the elevator the opposite direction. There was also the possibility that the I.D. badges were linked with a voice recognition program.

Variables, but knives and guns had a way of negating them. The agents outside would cooperate and lead her to Barton. Always assuming Barton wasn't one of the guards posted in the corridor, of course. Best not to think about that.

She let another hour pass, gave the guards an opportunity to grow tired and complacent as the night stretched. With luck, most of the base would be shut down, offices and labs empty, the agents living in the on-base apartments Barton had mentioned too deeply asleep to assemble quickly and provide backup.

She stood at last and stretched, faked a yawn, put on a believable show for the camera as she bent to the end of the cot where the pillow rested. She gripped the cool metal frame under the corner of the thin mattress, ready to dump the bedding and drag the frame into the corner.

The lights blazed on.

She spun to face the door, blinking hard against the glare as the keypad outside beeped and the lock scraped back.

Coulson stalked into the cell, dragging an aluminum chair, a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. A hand and arm appeared to pull the door closed after him, but the tactical gear was too uniform to give her a hint about which guard waited in the corridor.

Coulson's suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie hanging loose and the white dress shirt underneath rumpled. She wondered briefly what had happened to the crisply-pressed, pristine Agent Coulson she had come to expect.

"Barton's confined to quarters," Coulson announced, and slammed the chair down on four legs. His jacket swung open a bit more with the movement and she caught sight of the gun holstered at his hip. Her pulse quickened. No Barton around to mediate this time. "He's my agent. He's my priority. I'm not going to let him throw away the past twelve years on a whim and a pretty face."

She had a comeback for that one, but kept her mouth shut. The explanation of Barton's absence was too neat, just dire enough without inspiring retaliation on his behalf. No, Barton was either half-dead or conspiring against her. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't simply send him to his room for naughty behavior.

"I don't think I believe you," she replied.

"I don't care if you believe me or not. You're going to give me information I can use," Coulson ordered. "Right now. Sit."

He motioned to the bed, but she remained stubbornly on her feet, sizing him up. If Katya, at fourteen, had 'put Coulson on his ass', she shouldn't have a problem taking the gun and holding him hostage. Fast ticket out of the cell.

She moved forward, just one step, and Coulson played right into her new plan. He drew the gun and held it out in front, arms extended. Easier to disarm that way.

_Kill, Natalia._

"Sit, Natalia," Coulson barked harshly. He pulled the slide to chamber a round.

Disappointment and frustration vied for precedence. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't even get a hostage situation right.

"That isn't loaded," she told Coulson with a slow, sly grin, because she knew that would infuriate him more than expressing her exasperation. Coulson looked from her to the gun and back again, then huffed and let his arms drop to his sides.

"Of course it isn't loaded," he scoffed. "I'm not giving you access to functioning weapons. Thought it might help you cooperate, though."

"You really thought I couldn't hear the difference between loaded and not?"

"Desperate times," Coulson replied wryly. "Please sit?"

"Where's Barton?"

"Locked in his quarters," Coulson repeated, impatience creeping into his tone. He dropped his bag to the floor and sat on the aluminum chair, motioned to the bed again.

"Prove it," she challenged.

"The two of you aren't allowed contact. No phone calls, no visits. You'll just have to trust me."

"About as far as I can throw you," she muttered.

"Clint trusts me," Coulson said, lips quirking into a smile. "That was supposed to be a good enough reason for me to bring you in. I can't play the same card?"

She really, _really_ disliked Coulson.

"What kind of information?" she asked grudgingly, and sat as Coulson had requested. His expression softened, the wrinkles in his forehead and hard lines around his eyes relaxing. He produced a bottle of water from his bag and tossed it the short distance between them. She twisted the cap off and drank, but was careful to ration most of the bottle for later, in case it was a one-time gesture of goodwill.

"Something we can act on. A base we can raid, a name for an arrest, anything. We need to show the Council you can be cooperative. We need to make it look like Clint brought you in to benefit S.H.I.E.L.D., for the intel you can provide, not because he wanted to play humanitarian."

"They don't believe in second chances?"

"The Council likes order. You have to prove you're more beneficial to them alive than dead, before they start handing out free passes."

She couldn't dredge up much concern for her own standing with the Council. Instead, she found herself obnoxiously worried about Barton's situation. There had to be a reason they weren't allowed to see each other, and she suspected it was because Barton was busy being waterboarded or electrocuted or beaten. Leaving him to the Council seemed like a shitty way to repay him for his kindness.

How much would it take to pull Barton out of interrogation? She needed something big, something better than the KGB roster or a list of potential assassination targets.

"There's a defunct field office in Moldova-"

"That's not good enough," Coulson cut in sharply, the first hint of real anger coloring his words.

"Let me finish," she replied coolly. She stared him down until he sat back in his chair and waved a hand impatiently for her to continue. "In the second level sub-basement you'll find a bank of servers. Cold War era, mostly. There's one still functioning that might interest S.H.I.E.L.D."

"What's on this server?"

"The SPARTA protocol," she said, and watched Coulson's eyes go wide. Satisfying. She liked that expression. She wondered if she could make his jaw actually drop. "Secure Pecuniary Assurance Referendum and Tribulation Analysis. NATO's failsafe protocol in the event of a global economic collapse."

"How much does your government know?"

It didn't sting as much when it was Coulson rather than Barton implying she was still loyal to Russia, but she scowled anyway.

"Everything. Treaty agreements, the timeline for activating the protocol, which delegates get evac to the nice bunker and access to supplies, which countries get nuked once the rioting starts. I assume your Council has an interest."

He openly gaped at her and she felt a brief surge of triumph. She caught herself imagining Barton's reaction to the exchange, wondered briefly if he would scold her or find it amusing that she'd made a game out of shocking Agent Coulson.

"Who's the mole?" Coulson asked. He plunged a hand into the bag at his feet, retrieved a tablet, and began tapping the screen furiously.

"There isn't a spy," she scoffed, "there's a hole in the system. NATO's closed communication channels aren't so isolated."

"Do you know how to get in?"

"Considering I'm the one who stole the information in the first place, yes."

"Good," Coulson said. He retrieved a pen and legal pad from the bag, then passed them to her. "You're going to write down how you did it. List the vulnerabilities. It needs to be detailed enough for the tech team to go in and make the system secure, so this doesn't happen again."

This was the deal she had made, give up all her secrets. A stupid deal. Losing a large portion of her leverage made her feel vulnerable in a way she wasn't accustomed to.

She started writing, however, because she undeniably owed Barton.

"What do they plan to do with the information?" Coulson asked.

"Leak it, if any of NATO's member countries step too far out of line. Don't think the general population would be happy to learn their leaders planned an every-man-for-himself approach."

"Widespread panic never ends well," Coulson agreed.

She returned the pad and pen. Coulson tore off the page she'd written on and folded it into his pocket.

"So, this field office. How many agents should I send?"

"How many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents does it take to unplug a server?" she retorted. Coulson pinned her with an annoyed expression.

"Straight answer, please."

"If you're sending someone with Barton's skills, one should be enough. The building isn't guarded or under surveillance. There's a rudimentary alarm system to disable, but that's it. I could probably do it remotely."

"Won't be necessary," Coulson said in clipped tones. He stood and moved to stand beside the bed, then held out the tablet. The screen displayed a map of Moldova. "Just mark the coordinates of the building and the best route to approach."

He watched intently as she took the tablet and zoomed in on a city to the east. Probably making sure she didn't pull any tricks while she had her hands on S.H.I.E.L.D. tech.

"Tiraspol?" he muttered. She hummed her assent and tapped the square outline of a building on the edge of the city. It lit up red, latitude and longitude appearing across the top of the screen. "What's in Tiraspol?"

"Nothing," Natalia said. She traced her finger along a series of side streets, foregoing the larger highways. The route highlighted in red, too. "Nothing that would draw much interest, anyway. Good place to keep things hidden."

She passed the tablet back to Coulson.

"Good," he said again, studying the screen. "This is good intel. Useable. I'll put a team together and see what we find."

That was it? Coulson's initial concern had all but vanished. He visibly relaxed as he went back to his chair.

She wanted to ask how long the mission would take, if he intended to put agents on a plane tonight or use operatives already stationed in Europe. How would they handle Barton's punishment? Would he actually be taken to his quarters now, or would S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Council keep going at him until the mission proved successful?

She was still trying to think of an appropriate question to ask, one that would get her the information she wanted without giving away her concern for Barton, when Coulson said her name to draw her attention.

This time he held out a clear plastic bag with a sandwich chain logo printed in block letters. Inside was a wrapped sandwich and a small bag of chips.

"Peace offering? Heard your dinner plans got canceled."

Barton would call the gesture kindness. She categorized it as bribery. The Black Widow didn't prostrate herself in front of superiors, playing nice for handouts and pats on the head. She would cooperate until it no longer benefited her (or Barton), then go back to keeping her mouth shut.

"Not hungry," she told Coulson petulantly.

Perhaps she had grown accustomed to the no-nonsense way Barton dealt with her, because she half expected him to insist and leave the food despite her stubbornness. He shrugged instead, packed up the tablet and sandwich, then stood and carried the chair from the cell without another word.

 _Reckless_ , she chastised herself, _and juvenile_. Turning down food while being held captive was the dumbest move she could recall making, ever.

The lights went out again. She allowed herself to walk the length of the cell twice to burn off a little of the nervous energy Coulson had supplied her with, then went back to sit on the cot.

She could still attempt escape, but it was possible she'd end up doing more harm than good. Did she trust Coulson enough to stay put and let him handle the situation? Barton trusted him, and she trusted Barton, so by that logic she should wait and see what came of Coulson's recon mission. _Don't freak out_ , Barton had said. Instigating a one-woman assault on an astonishingly large S.H.I.E.L.D. base definitely constituted freaking out, no matter how calculated the plan. Wait and see, then.

The cell lit up once more, hours later, but when nobody entered she assumed it just meant morning, 0500. She began to count the minutes very precisely, a frustrating exercise, but one that eventually gave her a piece of information she wasn't sure what to make of. The agents in the hallway didn't change shifts at 0630 as Barton had told her they would.

She gave up estimating the time. It became an effort to remain vigilant, resisting the urge to sleep and simultaneously ignoring the dull, hungry ache in her gut. The headache came back slowly, prodding her temples and the space between her eyes.

She heard a murmur of voices in the corridor, the beep of the keypad.

A rush of white noise. Muffled, unintelligible shouting.

She blinked and found herself on her feet, halfway across the cell, fingernails digging into her palms at the hard clench of her fists. The door slammed, a jarring sound that made the breath catch in her chest.

"Shit," she whispered, icy dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. She paced back to the cot, spun and drew a shaky breath, raked a hand through her hair. Too late she remembered the security camera in the corner.

Two quick raps on the door.

"Natalia?"

Coulson.

She swallowed hard against the sick feeling rising in her throat.

"You surprised me," she called lamely, a hitch to the words. She let the back of her knees bump against the cot and sat, slid back to lean against the wall. She wanted to hide trembling fingers in the pocket of her pullover, but judged it best to keep her hands where Coulson and the security camera could see them.

The door opened a crack, and Coulson stuck his head in.

"Don't move, Natalia," he warned.

She nodded to show she understood, even held her hands up in surrender. An unfamiliar agent stepped up behind Coulson, a man with dark short-cropped hair and an unkind smirk. Rumlow, by process of elimination. He kept his rifle trained on her chest as Coulson entered the cell.

She turned a critical eye on Coulson, relieved to find she hadn't actually injured him. He shut the door and crossed the room cautiously, telegraphing each motion with slow, deliberate movements. He set up his chair closer than before, directly in front of her, close enough to touch if she reached out.

Close enough to kill.

She avoided his gaze and crossed her arms protectively across her chest. Why couldn't it have been Barton?

"You don't look well," Coulson said gently. He leaned forward ever so slightly, tried to catch her eye. "Would you like to go to Medical?"

S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors? Her breath came a little quicker at the thought.

She shook her head, but didn't trust herself to speak, not when Coulson was close enough to hear the tremor in her voice.

There hadn't been an order to ignore, a whispered suggestion to suppress. An incident like that one hadn't happened in months.

"Carter was watching the security feed last night. She said you didn't sleep," Coulson pressed.

"Jet lag," she lied.

Carter's words echoed in the back of her mind.

_Unstable. Prone to unprovoked violence._

"Where's Barton?"

The question slipped out before she realized, a shaky little whisper that made Coulson frown.

"He's with Director Fury. We're getting ready to present our case to the Council."

All she had to do was hold it together until Barton was cleared of suspicion. Coulson wasn't an idiot. He would keep the incident to himself, keep the agent monitoring the security feed quiet, at least until the meeting was over.

"You won't have an interview today," he added. "Fury's buried in paperwork. Easier to keep things straight if we handle them one at a time."

She caught the unspoken implication; she wouldn't be leaving the cell today. Possibly for the reason Coulson had just stated, but more likely because she'd attempted to attack him. That was okay. It was safer, for everyone involved, if she stayed confined.

The keypad chirped again and Coulson was on his feet, striding quickly back across the cell. He slammed his palm against the door to stop the person outside opening it.

"Not a good idea," Coulson called. He cut his eyes to her, gave her a warning look, then opened the door enough to speak with whoever waited outside. He was careful to block her view of the corridor. "Tell Hill to go ahead and start the briefing. I need ten minutes here, but I'll be up before we're due with the Council."

"I'm your partner, not your secretary."

A woman's voice, the words deadpan.

"Give Andrew a call, too," Coulson quipped, and smiled a little, although the humor left his tone almost immediately. "See if he can clear his schedule for the next couple days. I'm going to ask Fury to pull him in."

"You think Clint was wrong about her?"

"I think everyone's under a lot of stress," Coulson said fairly. The woman in the corridor passed him a water bottle, a cup of coffee, and a styrofoam container. "We're fine," he added, and shut the door. Natalia wondered briefly who he was trying to convince, because things were most certainly not fine.

Coulson came back and offered the coffee first, then placed the rest of her breakfast on the cot beside her. She stared down at the Starbucks logo rather than look at him. If she made eye contact, she might do something she'd regret.

Coulson stood, watching expectantly. She spun the coffee cup slowly between her fingers. _Clint_ was spelled out in black Sharpie on the opposite side. It made the heat seeping from the cup somehow more comforting.

"You have a partner?" she asked, the question posed with just the right balance of curiosity and polite interest. It was the Black Widow who wanted to know, Natalia realized that. Ordinarily she wouldn't think twice about Coulson's interpersonal relationships.

"Yes," Coulson confirmed shortly, but didn't volunteer any more information. Didn't matter. The cadence of the woman's voice echoed in her head, and she felt sure she would recognize Coulson's partner if their paths happened to cross. Partners were better leverage than vintage cars.

"You need to leave," Natalia told him.

"You're not getting rid of me until I see you eat something," Coulson replied, and resumed his seat.

She had spent their entire acquaintance being abrasive and taciturn. It was no wonder Coulson didn't take the warning seriously.

She tried the coffee, hoping that would placate him, but he only frowned. She relented and pulled the styrofoam container into her lap.

There was a message scrawled on the lid - _Eat the damn pancakes, Red_ \- and underneath a crudely drawn stick figure with angry eyes and a scowl, holding a bow and arrow. The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn't feel much like smiling, not when she'd just lost it and attacked Coulson.

Still, Barton had obviously been allowed to go to the cafeteria for breakfast. That seemed promising.

She flipped the container open and found a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a plastic fork, and two little cups full of syrup. Her stomach turned at the sickly-sweet smell, she was too keyed up and anxious for food, but she doused the pancakes in syrup and forced down a forkful anyway. Coulson blew out a relieved sigh and pulled a phone from his pocket.

She ate with tiny, quick bites while he was distracted, sure he would only pay attention to the motion in his peripheral vision rather than how many pancakes disappeared. When he sat straighter and locked the phone, she tossed the fork back into the styrofoam container and closed the lid.

"Now leave," she repeated. Coulson scowled and shook his head, but stood and collected the takeout box.

"I'll let you know how things go with the Council," he said, and this time she could hear the strained effort as he put on a nice tone. She couldn't bring herself to care. She needed Coulson out of the cell before her programming got the best of her again.

Coulson disappeared into the corridor outside and she finished her coffee. The caffeine and sugar didn't give her a burst of energy or make her feel more alert, and after a while she gave in and stretched across the bed, back to the door. She wondered if Barton was having any luck arguing his case. Coulson hadn't mentioned if her intel had been helpful.

The odd rushing noise was in her ears again, and even though she knew what was coming, she couldn't fight it.

She was losing time, large stretches of it. As a naive child she had expected that to wake from being controlled would be like waking from a dream, pleasant and slow. It was nothing like that. Wresting control from the Black Widow was disorienting and jarring.

She was lying on the cot, back facing the room, then _flash_ leaning against the wall by the door. Blink, perched on the edge of the cot, muscles drawn taut. Next moment, standing near the corner of the cell, staring up at the security camera.

She turned away and shook her head, and lost herself again.

It was pain that brought her back, a dull throbbing in one shoulder and a sharper sensation in the crook of the elbow of her other arm. She found it difficult to draw breath, a solid weight against her back pinning her to the floor, forcing the air from her lungs.

"Hurry up, Doc. You've got about ten seconds before you get to see her kick my ass again."

The archer.

 _Barton_ , she corrected herself. _Clint._

She shifted beneath him, tried to turn her head and catch his eye, but the heel of his hand jammed into the side of her throat and callused fingers pressed her cheek into the cold concrete floor.

Her field of vision was restricted to her outstretched arm, where a pair of big hands in latex gloves were taking a blood sample with a syringe.

Fear licked at her heart, and this time it wasn't the concern of how she could unwittingly hurt Barton or Coulson, but trepidation as she realized S.H.I.E.L.D. had no better intentions than the Red Room.

"Hit her," Latex Gloves ordered, and pulled the needle free of her arm.

She braced for a punch, tried to counter Barton's hold, but there was no way out when his technique was flattening her with the hundred or so pounds he outweighed her.

Cool metal pressed against her neck, and for one wild moment she thought he meant to shoot her. She realized almost immediately how stupid the idea was. There were more efficient places to aim a gun, if he wanted her dead. It was something else, a medical tool of some kind.

Barton held her a little more firmly. A whoosh of compressed air, and the skin beneath the instrument began to sting. An injection.

"Easy, sweetheart," he whispered. Her vision began to go black around the edges. "We're trying to help. I know it doesn't seem that way."

Barton backed off. She didn't bother going after him. She closed her eyes and curled in on herself instead, waiting to pass out.

She knew what this was. The Black Widow was an asset. Why would S.H.I.E.L.D. bother to fix her programming when they could turn it to their advantage? This was only the beginning of needle sticks and drugs.

The keypad beeped, the door opened and closed. Her panting eased into slow controlled breaths, and she didn't pass out. Her head cleared.

 _Really_ cleared.

She opened her eyes and stared at the blank stretch of floor and wall, thoroughly unnerved. She felt light, untethered. A sensation she associated with a handful of happy memories and later, her early years in the Red Room's training regime. Programming had left a faint, lingering pressure at the base of her skull, a constant physical reminder that her handlers were breathing down the back of her neck, that she was being monitored, that borrowed time was the only thing standing between her and the Black Widow. When she resisted, the pressure grew worse, transitioned into pain and spread to her temples and the space behind her eyes.

That was gone now. She felt like Natalia. There was the possibility that Barton was on her side after all, a cautious hope. She waited, shivering a bit with nerves and anticipation, but nobody instructed her to kill.

She pressed one hand flat against the floor to push herself up and found her fingernails stained with blood.

_...get to see her kick my ass again..._

Barton's blood.

The tiny flicker of optimism faded. She couldn't ever go back to being just Natalia.


	8. Pulling Punches

"Nat?"

Barton alternated knocking and calling his stupid nicknames through the door. She couldn't bring herself to answer. She sat on the floor with her back pressed into the corner, directly under the security camera. Maybe he hesitated to barge in because they couldn't get a good visual on her.

The blood on her hand had to be Barton's, because aside from a sore shoulder and an ache in her jaw, she didn't have any new injuries. She didn't want to see what she'd done to him. She didn't know the words to use to apologize. She couldn't think of a way to rebuild the trust she had most assuredly shattered, the trust that shouldn't matter but instead meant more than she cared to admit.

So she ignored him. Wished for the voices to come back, because then she wouldn't have to beat down the tentative flickers of hope. The good was always too good to be true.

Barton was patient, but persistent. Keeping silent worked for close to an hour, then the keypad beeped and he eased the door open. She couldn't see any backup in the corridor behind him, and he was slow to enter and secure the door.

He was dressed in a plain grey t-shirt and jeans, not the tactical suit she had expected. Unarmed, save for a small device held loosely in his left hand; white medical tape held together the middle and index fingers of his right. A series of shallow crescent punctures on his forearm and a row of long scratches down his cheek told her where the blood had come from.

Guilt drew tight in her chest and she clenched her hand into a fist, an ineffectual attempt at hiding the source of her shame.

Barton squared his shoulders and studied her with a new wariness behind his eyes.

"Get up," he said quietly, and it was undeniably an order. He flicked his wrist and the weapon in his left hand hummed to life, crackling and throwing off blue sparks.

She startled at the noise, gave an involuntary little shudder, but couldn't distance herself any further. Why did they have to send Barton? She stood on shaky legs, palms pressed flat against the wall behind her for support. Adrenaline spiked and sharpened her concentration, until her attention was wholly focused on Barton and the taser.

"What's that for?" she asked softly, evenly. She already knew. Electricity was punishment and reprogramming.

"Insurance," Barton replied. "Not sure I'll come out the winner, if we go another round."

He stepped forward and she slid along the wall to her left, maintaining the space between them. He advanced again. She backed into the corner parallel to the security camera.

Barton cocked his head a little, weighed the taser in his palm.

"Are you scared of this thing?"

"No," she scoffed, in what she hoped passed for a derisive tone.

She simply didn't want to associate Barton with fire searing through taut muscles and the raw feeling in her throat that came from too much screaming. The illusion of having someone on her side was nice. She wanted to hold on to it a little longer.

"Aw, fuck it," he mumbled, and shut off the taser. "You won't attack me again, right?"

She studied him carefully, trying to determine if he was playing her. There was no point making promises she couldn't keep.

"Not without a good reason," she said at last.

"There's my girl," Barton said with a sardonic little grin.

Worse than another nickname. She narrowed her eyes.

"I'm not your girl, Barton."

"Thank God," he replied emphatically, and lost the defensive stance. He gave her a genuine smile this time. "Didn't think I'd ever miss you being an asshole."

He crossed the cell and dropped down to sit on the cot, leaned back and let his head rest against the wall with a _thud_.

Natalia stayed in her corner. What had she done in the past twenty seconds to merit a complete change in Barton's demeanor?

She always managed to forget he was a highly-trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operative. If their roles were switched, she'd use that vulnerability to prod their meeting in the direction she wanted. Hadn't he used the same technique to drag her to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Fight, throw her off balance with kindness, then subtle manipulation.

He watched her expectantly, frowned when she continued to regard him from the corner, then dropped the taser to the floor and kicked it across the cell.

"Better?" he asked. "Can we talk now?"

Make a dive for the taser, or sit? She shuffled indecisively toward the discarded weapon.

"Nat," he said warningly.

 _This is Barton,_ she reminded herself. Barton, who had made her breakfast, and cleaned her guns, and let her sleep on the plane. It was Barton's blood under her fingernails. He was well within his rights to be a little cautious.

She sat at the edge of the cot, keeping as much space between them as possible. He would at least have room to counter if she snapped again.

"What a mess," Barton mumbled tiredly, and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You remember what happened?"

She shook her head, then reconsidered. She may have played dumb with anyone else, but Barton deserved her honesty.

"You gave me something," she said, and couldn't help the little twinge of betrayal in her tone. "And there was another man. He took a blood sample."

"That was Andrew. Dr. Garner. He's psych, not on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s payroll. Fury calls him in to consult on special cases."

She was a special case now? The phrase put her guard up. That sounded suspiciously like 'science project'. Add in a secret off-the-books psychologist and miracle drug cocktails, and the entire situation began to seem too reminiscent of the Red Room.

 _This is Barton_ , she told herself again, a desperate childish mantra that would end up getting her killed. She leaned warily away.

"Don't look at me like that," Barton said softly, a pained expression flashing across his features. "I get it, okay? I know what this looks like."

"What was in the injection?" she demanded, or tried to, but the question only came out accusatory and a little anguished.

"I can't pronounce half of it," Barton said, and shook his head. "It's experimental. Dr. Garner worked with R&D to develop it, to counteract the stuff in the tranquilizer arrow."

"Tranquilizer arrow?" she repeated blankly.

"The arrow I shot you with. I _actually_ fried your brain, sweetheart."

She frowned at his slang, at the way he tried to accept responsibility for the situation and simultaneously play it off.

"That was two days ago," she scoffed.

"Three," Barton corrected. "You've been out of it for a while."

She'd lost an entire day? That made the idea that it was Barton's fault even less likely. She had slept off the drugs in the safe house, felt absolutely fine until the airfield.

"There was more in the arrow than they listed on the mission dossier," Barton added, and this time he didn't look at her as he spoke. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, let his gaze drop to his boots. "Psychosis-inducing drugs, experimental truth serum, some of that stuff R&D just threw in for shits and giggles, didn't know what it'd do or how it would interact with everything else. The mission details were need-to-know. I was supposed to shoot the target with the sedative and drop him at the nearest field office for interrogation, move on to the next assignment. Guess I need to start asking more questions."

Okay, so maybe it _was_ his fault. She caught the unspoken apology, and even though she couldn't bring herself to blame Barton for making her an unwilling test subject - she felt too horrendously guilty for attacking him - she still wondered what kind of agent didn't know what was in his arrows before he shot them. More S.H.I.E.L.D. incompetence.

"Dr. Garner can explain it better, if you'll talk to him."

Her kneejerk reaction was to refuse. Keep her distance from the man who evaluated S.H.I.E.L.D.'s special cases. Then she considered it from another angle.

If it had only taken Dr. Garner one day to throw together a compound that could suppress her programming, maybe it was in her best interest to meet him. Maybe this time luck was on her side. Maybe it really would be that simple to find someone who could undo years spent under the Red Room's control.

"You're friends with this doctor?" she asked. Barton looked up, surprise behind his expression at her easy almost-agreement.

"Yeah, Andrew's cool. He's Agent May's husband. You can trust him."

She wasn't sure who Agent May was or why their endorsement should matter, but if Barton liked Dr. Garner...

"I'll talk to him," she agreed, but didn't make any further promises.

Barton pulled a phone from his back pocket and shot off a quick text.

"Ten minutes," he said when the phone bleeped a response. "Dr. Garner's in the lab upstairs."

She made a noncommittal sound, a quiet little _hmm_. Barton didn't add anything more, and kept his mouth shut far longer than the two and a half minutes she'd called him on in the safe house.

She pulled the pillow into her lap and crossed her arms around it as the silence between them became awkward. She had done irreparable damage to whatever had been building between them. Their silences had been tense or hard or weighted, occasionally comfortable, but never awkward. Barton kept throwing little glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking, and once she caught his eyes straying to the taser in the corner. She couldn't fault him for it.

"Wanna see the surveillance footage?"

The words were tentative, no self-assured bravado this time.

He was doing it again, luring her closer, drawing her out, just as he had with the chocolate on the plane. He offered the phone, but not at arm's length. He held it close to his side, out of her reach, unless she chose to move toward his end of the cot.

Morbid curiosity won in the end.

She scooted a little and took the phone, careful not to brush his fingers with hers, in case the contact inspired another attack from the Black Widow. She tapped the screen and Barton leaned in a little closer to watch.

The video began with Barton entering the cell, with notably less caution than he'd just displayed.

Her voice rang from the phone's speakers, high and wavering, words she didn't recall speaking.

_'Please leave.'_

Barton faced the camera head-on, and she realized she must have inadvertently situated herself in the same corner, out of view, twice.

 _'This is all on me, sweetheart. This isn't your fault.'_ He stepped closer and held out a hand.

_'I'll hurt you, like I hurt Coulson.'_

_'Nah, you didn't hurt Phil. Scared him a little, maybe.'_

Her hand appeared in the frame, then the rest of her as Barton helped her stand.

She watched the Black Widow scrub a hand across her eyes, give a hiccuping little sniffle. Barton shuffled awkwardly on the spot and patted her shoulder.

She lunged, and Natalia felt sure she was going to watch herself attack Barton, but the Black Widow only hugged him and pressed her cheek against his chest.

 _'I'm so scared, Clint,'_ she whispered into his shirt, almost too softly for the security camera to pick up. Barton froze for half a second, his eyes going cold, then recovered and returned the embrace. Her hand slid up the back of his neck to rest just below his hairline.

"Move, idiot," Natalia muttered, because the Barton on the screen was about three seconds from having his neck snapped. She watched him counter as if he had heard her warning.

"I knew it wasn't you," Barton said quietly beside her. He grinned a little. "You don't admit when you're scared, and you sure as hell don't call me Clint."

They fought, and she realized Barton had been holding back in Germany. He matched her blow for blow, vaulted off the cot to dodge a kick to the head, backed her into a corner twice.

Natalia was torn between watching the fight play out and rolling the video back to study his technique.

The Black Widow won in the end, at least temporarily. She slammed a fist into his ribs and swept his legs. She crouched beside him and snarled a long string of Russian, and although her back was to the camera, blocking view of the action, Natalia heard the crack and saw Barton's body convulse with a little jerk of pain as she made good on the promise.

She dropped the phone on the cot between them and crossed her arms around the pillow in her lap again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and fixed her eyes on the floor rather than look at him. "I said..." She hesitated, shame burning through her chest. He hadn't asked, and she wasn't obligated to translate, but he deserved to know the extent of her cruelty. If his trust hadn't been broken before, it certainly would be now. "I said I was going to break your fingers, so you couldn't shoot the bow again."

"Only heard that one about a million times," Barton assured her, and rolled his eyes. "You didn't break 'em, just dislocated one."

He offered his taped fingers for her to examine. She swallowed hard and shook her head and convulsively squeezed the pillow a little tighter. She didn't deserve to be absolved so easily.

"I pay you back," he smirked, and held out the phone.

There was something oddly reassuring about Barton's brand of comfort. She took the phone again with selfish intentions. If she watched him return the assault, maybe she wouldn't feel so guilty about the encounter.

She resumed the video. The Black Widow prowled a circle around Barton, grinning, while he lay panting on the floor. She pulled her leg back to aim a kick at his ribs; he lunged and wrapped his hands around her sprained ankle, gave it a violent twist.

She went down hard on her shoulder and Barton threw himself on top of her. He twined his legs with hers and grappled for a long moment until he had her effectively pinned. The cell door opened a crack, prematurely if she had to guess, because Barton's eyes went wide and he whipped his head around to call a warning.

The Black Widow used his distraction to twist an arm free. She curled her fingers into claws and raked her nails down his face, and he tried to lean out of range while still maintaining his hold. She dug her nails into his forearm next, until he loosened his grip and she gained the advantage. She flipped him and scrambled away as he slid across the concrete floor.

Natalia picked at the dried blood under her nails and bit her lip. Seeing Barton pin her for all of fifteen seconds didn't make her feel any better. If that was his idea of payback...

They circled, Barton dancing out of reach each time she tried to attack. The technique became a pattern, the fight stretched for several minutes without coming to blows again. Finally, finally, Barton swung his arm back instead of darting away, and he'd let the encounter play out just long enough to catch her off guard. He landed a solid punch to her jaw and she crumpled to the floor. Barton gave the security camera a grim thumbs-up.

"I think you enjoyed that," Natalia told him, and brushed her fingers over the sore spot. At least she knew why her jaw hurt.

"Maybe a little," he admitted reluctantly.

The rest of the video was predictable. The Black Widow swore at him in slurred Russian, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness as she made ineffectual attempts to stop Barton pinning her a second time. He took his time getting the hold just right, and he kept repeating her name - _Natalia? Natalia. Nat. Come on sweetheart, I know this isn't you._ \- until Dr. Garner came in with his latex gloves. He passed Barton the injection and slid the needle into her arm.

"I remember the rest," she said quietly. She stopped the video playback and returned Barton's phone. She didn't feel any better knowing the details of the encounter.

"I'd call us just about even," Barton said bracingly. "You almost break my fingers, I almost break your face. We're golden."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, because she didn't know the words for a more sincere apology. It only made it worse, the way Barton tried to play everything off as a joke. "You shouldn't be here. You should have done what they wanted in Munich and-"

"Stop, Natalia," he told her, a hard edge to the words. "We will have a a problem, if I hear you say I should've finished the mission."

"I don't know how to fix it," she said, more to herself than to him, because there was no way he could actually _want_ to be in the same room with her after all that.

"You don't have to fix anything. You had yourself under control until I shot you with that arrow."

"I almost killed you," she argued.

"You're not the first one."

He was infuriating. Why was he so set on exonerating her? She found herself starting to believe him, the more he repeated it, and it was terrifying.

She was responsible for everything, every assassination in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files and three times as many they didn't know about. She could have stopped it. She would be dead, but she could have stopped herself an innumerable amount of times over the past years. A quick shot to the head, or one of the poisons meant to be used on a mark. She was too much a coward for that. She had chosen instead to take up the Black Widow mantle, let others meet the end that should have been hers, because she still held on to a handful of tiny memories, flashes she wasn't even sure were real, and she selfishly wanted to find something like them again.

Barton would sense the weakness, read her flawlessly as he always did.

She pushed herself up with the intent of retreating to the corner, putting an end to the interaction and Barton's insistence that she wasn't to blame, but he caught her arm and tugged her back down to sit. Panic rose sharp and sent her heart thundering against her ribs, fear that instincts would override common sense and have her fighting him again at the unexpected touch.

She tried to jerk her arm free, but he held fast, and she found something calming in the steady, determined way he held her gaze.

"D'you think it was easy when Coulson brought me in?" he asked softly. He was doing it again, being nice when she didn't deserve it. She couldn't bring herself to maintain eye contact, looked instead to the floor. He took his hand away once her breathing evened out, once she no longer gave the impression of bolting. "Do you think we just signed a few forms and _boom_ S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? It was messy and confusing and nobody knew what the fuck they were doing. Your recruitment's going to be exactly the same, and you'll probably have days when you wish I never brought you in, and you'll hate me for it. You'll fight with me and Coulson. You're a smartass, so you'll probably get on Fury's bad side once or twice, too. But you're stubborn. You'll stick it out, and in a couple months you'll feel good about being here."

She longed to believe him, but couldn't quite match his optimism.

" _Exactly_ the same?" she asked, and lifted her head to pin him with a skeptical expression.

Okay," he amended, "so the Jekyll and Hyde thing was kind of a curveball, but I think we've got it figured out."

She couldn't make herself believe that, either. The Black Widow always came back.

"So we're still partners, right?" he prompted.

Too dangerous. He clearly didn't understand how close she'd come to ending him in the video footage.

"We're not partners," she mumbled, and felt a little twinge of regret.

"A team, then. Allies. Whatever you were calling us."

_Friends?_

The word flashed across her mind and she shoved it away, detesting the fact that she'd thought it at all.

"No," she told him.

"Fine," he agreed, haughty and facetious. "Next time I have to take you down, I won't bother pulling my punches."

She recognized the setup. She was supposed to scoff and call him out, debate his skills, insist he'd been fighting his hardest in the surveillance video and still almost lost. They were supposed to snark at each other and repair what she'd broken.

"Fine," she repeated instead, and went back to staring at the floor. She saw the disappointment flicker in Barton's expression from the corner of her eye.


	9. Not The Worst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super important announcement:   
> 1\. The title will be changed to 'Innocence Died Screaming' as of the next update, don't get confused!   
> 2\. I chopped my outline up because this story is ridiculous. It's now a 4-part (I think, maybe more) series. Four parts will roughly cover the following - recruitment, training, partnership, then probably post-Avengers or post-Winter Soldier or something. This one probably has about 6-10 more chapters. Nice.  
> 3\. This chapter is 10k words and as such I'm sure there are mistakes and I know some parts are probably rough, I apologize in advance if my proofing was all for naught. Enjoy!

Barton sat subdued beside her until the keypad beeped and the door opened, then latched onto her forearm again as Dr. Garner stepped into the cell. She couldn't tell if he meant to reassure her or remind her not to snap and attack, but despite the awkwardness lingering between them, there was something comforting and grounding in the warmth of his touch.

Dr. Garner carried the same folding chair Coulson kept dragging into the cell, along with a blood pressure cuff and another needle and syringe. Even though Barton had said _talk_ , she had expected more tests and needle sticks. She didn't pull her arm from Barton's grasp or protest, just turned a cool gaze on Dr. Garner and evaluated him for hidden weapons.

He wore dress shoes and a pair of grey slacks, a matching blazer and a button down. The ensemble gave a far more relaxed impression than Coulson's ties and pressed suits, and she suspected that Dr. Garner had made every choice deliberately, to make himself feel more approachable. To make her feel as if she could trust him. The corner of her lips twitched.

Gun in the back waistband of his pants, a taser identical to Barton's concealed in an inside pocket of the blazer, and something small and unidentifiable in his right front pants pocket. Approachable, indeed.

"You're doing that look again," Barton mumbled. Dr. Garner chuckled, set up his chair and sat, offered her a hand.

"Andrew Garner," he said. "That look stopped scaring me a long time ago."

The concealed weapons suggested otherwise. It was simply Dr. Garner's job to appear comfortable with her, put her at ease. Everyone was scared of the Black Widow, and nobody liked Natalia. Even Barton, with his delusional opinion that everyone could be redeemed with a second chance, had brought a weapon this time.

"She doesn't do hand shakes," Barton quipped, and arched an eyebrow at her.

She got the message.

_Prove me wrong_ , Barton's expression said. _Cooperate. Here's your way out._

"Neurology and forensic psychology," Garner added.

Barton hadn't mentioned that, and she found herself curious despite her initial suspicion. Perhaps he really would be competent enough to help. She _had_ promised to talk.

_But carefully_ , she reminded herself. Dr. Garner was still Fury's lapdog, and the entire interaction was probably part of an evaluation of some kind, an opportunity to weigh and measure how much of a liability she presented.

"Natalia," she offered in return, and shook his hand.

"Now she's interested," Barton said with a little grin. "Should've led with the credentials."

"You ready to get out of here, Natalia?" Garner asked kindly. "I think we're doing more harm than good keeping you in solitary confinement."

The change of venue was supposed to win him points, but the offer only put her guard up. What did S.H.I.E.L.D. have to gain by giving her access to the base? Was Fury looking for a reason to have her put down, giving her an opportunity to attack again? Didn't any of them care about the collateral damage if that happened? She didn't want to be responsible for more blood and snapped necks.

"Bad move," Barton lamented, and shook his head with a frown. "You'll have to spend an hour convincing her there isn't a catch, or that we're not secretly going to drag her off to be interrogated, or-"

"I'd rather stay here," Natalia interrupted, effectively cutting off Barton's too-accurate assessment. The banter had always grated on her nerves in an obnoxious way, but there was an added sting now, something mildly derogatory behind his words that hadn't been there before, as if he were tiring of her. Or was she only imagining it?

"Can I ask why?" Garner replied.

"It's cozy," she deadpanned. She'd rather die than admit to emotional weakness, especially to a psych evaluator.

"Told ya," Barton muttered smugly.

"I understand you feel safe here, and that you feel everyone else is safer if you're locked up, but I'm pulling rank on this one. You can't stay here. We'll check your vitals and take another blood sample, then Clint can move you upstairs. You can ask as many questions as you want, but I'd prefer you to save them until after I've run the bloodwork. That seem fair?"

Dr. Garner waited with mild interest and a kind expression, and she detested him. It was bad enough Barton could read her so flawlessly, but was she really as transparent as all that? How did Garner know that she'd rather not risk killing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents in exchange for a small taste of freedom? He was only supposed to see the Black Widow, the mask, the frigid exterior.

"No," she retorted, because nothing about the situation was fair, but she pushed up her sleeve and held out her arm for the blood sample anyway. They weren't giving her a choice, and she'd had enough fighting for one day.

"No, you don't think this is fair? Or no, you won't cooperate?" Garner asked.

"Just do the evaluation," she shot back.

Barton scowled and opened his mouth, probably to admonish her, but Garner cut him off.

"It's okay," he told Barton, then turned back to her. "You don't have to be nice. I haven't done anything to earn the respect you show Clint, I get that."

She made a derisive noise and looked away, but her eyes fell on Barton, who was watching her with an arched brow and incredulous expression.

"Respect?" he mouthed silently at her.

It was true, however reluctant she was to accept it, but it was also something else she'd rather die than admit to.

She curled her lips into a sneer at Barton and longed to evade their scrutiny, but with him sat on one side and Garner in front, there wasn't an easy escape route.

"Needle stick last," Garner said, and when he reached forward it was only to rest two fingers against her wrist and check her pulse. With the evaluation started, she felt suddenly less inclined to bolt. Garner took a tiny flashlight from his jacket next, and turned the beam in her eyes to watch her pupils constrict and dilate. Then the blood pressure cuff, the reading making his mouth press into a thin line.

"110 over 70," he said, and shook his head slowly in what she took for disbelief. He gave her a little smile, an appreciative expression. "Perfect. You're sitting here keyed up, furious at me and Clint, and you give me 110 over 70. You're trouble, Natalia."

Another advantage gone, and she felt a fraction more vulnerable. She had been trained to regulate her heart rate, pass any lie detector, project calm and withstand interrogation. Garner would tell Fury, and it was sure to be a mark against her, another foundation for suspicion.

"Is that the assessment you're going to give Director Fury?" she asked coolly.

"Nope," Garner replied, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "Nick only wanted to know if you were stable enough for your first round of interviews tomorrow. I'm not obligated to share anything else."

"So you're looking for leverage," she accused next.

"I don't want anything from you, Natalia," Garner said evenly.

She almost called bullshit but elected to keep her mouth shut instead. Let Garner think she believed him, or at least that she was considering it. Let him think he was beginning to win her over. She toned down the scowling a bit while he stuck the needle in her arm and drew the blood sample.

"Just the tracking bracelet left, and you're good to go," Garner told her. Coulson had mentioned that as being one of the concessions she'd have to make once she was on base, so it didn't hold any shock value. They'd be stupid not to put a tracker on her.

The tracking bracelet turned out to be the thing she couldn't identify in Garner's pants pocket. He drew it out and held it in his palm for her to examine. It didn't appear special, just a plain circle of chrome with a shiny black sensor near the clasp.

"Your choice, left or right wrist. Whatever you're more comfortable with," Garner said.

His play was painfully obvious; she was supposed to think she was outsmarting him and offer her non-dominant hand, to up her chances of successfully removing the tracker, and Garner would put the bracelet on the wrist she didn't offer.

She called his bluff and held out her left hand. As expected, Garner leaned swiftly into her personal space and snapped the tracker around her right. He was quick to back off, probably fearing she'd attack him for the deception, his chair scraping across the floor with a grating noise as he leaned away a little too enthusiastically. Barton snickered.

"She got you, Doc," he said. "She's left-handed. If she wants the tracker off, it's coming off."

Garner's eyebrows drew together and she gave him a slow smile.

"You can't switch it?" she asked, her tone all polite curiosity and innocence.

"Too late now," Garner admitted with a deep frown. "The release mechanism's voice-activated."

Director Fury's voice, if she had to guess, although Garner was smart enough not to give away the information. He stood and planted his hands on his hips, looked down at her and Barton for a long moment. He wouldn't take her to have the tracking bracelet switched. He wouldn't want Fury to know she'd outsmarted him.

"Get outta here," Garner said at last, then added in a low murmur, "Don't know what Nick expects me to do with another Clint Barton."

She almost felt indignant at the assessment, but Barton perked up beside her.

"She's great, right?" he said, something akin to pride ringing behind the words. The trick with the tracking bracelet seemed to have pulled him out of the brooding temper he'd fallen into.

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, tugging her toward the door. She hated the way the warmth of his touch quelled her anxiety. Garner's opinion didn't mean much, but if Barton thought she was capable of being on base without slaughtering the other agents, she'd give it a shot.

The corridor outside was empty, no guards or guns. Garner followed them out and turned down the hallway to the left; Barton steered them the opposite direction.

"Half an hour," Garner called after them. "Stay out of trouble."

Barton lifted a hand and waved him off as they turned the corner. A single elevator waited at the end of the corridor, and still there were no additional guards, just Barton, and she was fairly certain he was unarmed now. He swiped an i.d. badge to make the doors open and her muscles drew taut in anticipation, but the elevator was empty. He motioned for her to go first, then stepped in behind her.

"Security protocol 6-3-8-6-Alpha," he announced, and the elevator gave a mechanical tone. "Barracks, floor sixteen."

The elevator dinged again. It was larger than the one they'd squeezed into with Coulson and the other agents, chrome on three sides with a back wall made entirely of glass. She rapped her knuckles against the glass; solid, probably bulletproof, possibly serving no greater purpose than aesthetics. Security camera in the corner. Emergency stop near the bottom of the long rows of buttons beside the door. And still no guards.

"So," Barton said as the doors slid shut, "full disclosure on the tracking bracelet. It's got a sedative and a little needle inside. You go off again, we flip the switch and knock you out."

_That's_ why they were so willing to let her leave the Containment level. She gave up her assessment of the elevator, stopped wondering about additional guards.

"We?" she asked.

"Fury, Coulson, Garner, and me. We can send a signal with our phones to activate it. See? Tech designed a fancy new 'neutralize the Russian' app."

He indicated a little square in the corner of the phone's screen, black with a bright red spider in the middle.

"You're not supposed to tell me," she guessed.

"No, but I promised not to lie to you. And not telling is just lying by omission."

She felt her trust in him grow another degree, although she didn't acknowledge his honesty beyond a short appraising glance and a little quirk of her lips.

A shaft of bright, natural light broke across the ceiling and quickly flooded the elevator, sparing her the effort of thanking Barton for being so forthright; Natalia spun to face the glass wall as they passed beyond the underground levels.

"Better than the florescents downstairs, huh?" Barton said, and stepped up beside her. "Not much to look at, though. It'll be prettier in a couple months."

The landscape was rather drab, all cars and buildings and dead grass and trees with barren spindly branches. But the afternoon sun broke through heavy grey clouds to reflect on the river, and while the light wasn't particularly warm as it filtered through the glass, it still sapped a little of the tension from her shoulders.

"I've seen pictures," she told him, recalling pink cherry blossoms and bright manicured lawns. She'd been drilled on significant landmarks as part of her training, the White House and the Washington Monument and Arlington National Cemetery. The photographs she and the other girls had been shown had been promotional shots, building facades and walking paths. She picked out the obelisk standing tall in the distance as they rose higher, but couldn't recall any of the statistics or facts she'd been made to memorize.

"We'll go play tourist sometime," Barton said easily. She entertained the invitation for a moment, but recognized it as an unrealistic notion and forced the idea away lest she become attached. Director Fury wouldn't turn her loose on the nation's capital. Barton just liked to fill silences with nonsense. "Not now," he added. "Cold as balls out there now, and I had enough cold in Germany trying to tail you."

The elevator slowed to a smooth stop, and the doors slid soundlessly open. Barton didn't move. He chose instead to keep talking at her.

"Can we be friends again? I've got a way to take you out, you don't have to keep up the whole push-me-away-so-I-don't-get-hurt act."

Of course he realized. The uncanny talent he possessed for reading her had ceased to be surprising.

Barton waited, watching expectantly for her answer. She kept her eyes on the city across the Potomac.

Was he under the impression they'd been friends before? _Had_ they been? She hadn't killed him, so maybe that was all it took to get on Barton's good side.

"You weren't pulling your punches in that video," she accused at last, and swept past him into the corridor beyond the elevator. It would've been more impressive if she actually had any idea which direction they were going.

"Please," Barton scoffed. He hung a right out of the elevator, leaving her to follow. "If I'd _really_ hit you, you'd still be unconscious on the floor."

She jogged three undignified strides to catch up, then fell into step beside him.

"You hit like a new recruit," she told him coolly.

" _You're_ a new recruit, genius."

Her mind hummed blank, and Barton only waited half a second for her to come up with a retort.

"Point for Hawkeye," he said with a little smirk.

"Shut up, Barton," she replied, but the venom behind the words fell flat. He gave her a wide grin and leaned in to bump his shoulder against hers. The brief instant of contact was comforting in a way she didn't want to examine.

"So, friends?" he prompted.

"Alright," she relented, but there was a hesitancy behind the word.

What would being friends with Barton entail? Her mind jumped to off-the-books favors, perhaps a request to do his dirty work, an order to gather intel on the Council for Fury, risks Barton wouldn't want to undertake himself.

Barton's grin shrank into a sad little smile, and the amused glint dancing behind his eyes faded.

"I've got your back and you've got mine. We don't lie and we don't keep secrets. That's how this works, okay? No expectations beyond that."

"Alright," she said again, and felt a bit better. He wasn't asking anything outside the parameters of their current relationship, and he had proven to be reliable at watching her back. It had been easy to back him up in the car chase and throw information at Coulson on Barton's behalf. She'd hardly thought about the consequences, because helping Barton felt right, after he'd helped her, and maybe his simplistic explanation of friendship was all there really was to it.

"This is me," he said, and tugged her to a stop in front of one of the identical steel doors that lined the corridor. She watched him swipe his I.D. badge, punch in a pin, and press his thumb against a scanner on a keypad mounted next to the door. "Security code's 2-4-6-8. Fury has director override on the entire base, but other than him, Coulson's the only one I've authorized to get in. You don't have a badge yet, so I'll just set you up for a fingerprint scan."

He pressed more buttons on the keypad as he spoke, and when he held out a hand for hers, she shied away.

"Why?" she asked suspiciously. She couldn't imagine voluntarily giving someone access to her room, friends or not. Quick way to get killed.

Barton frowned a little, shrugged.

"If things go to shit you'll have somewhere to hide, I guess. Or if you feel like you need a break from being monitored. They won't look for you in here."

There had to be more to it than that. Perhaps he was trying to repair the fissures the Black Widow had carved into their tentative trust. Whatever his motive, she liked contingency plans and bolt-holes, so she let Barton take her hand and press her thumb against the scanner, although she couldn't think of a single instance when she'd willingly intrude on his private quarters.

Barton made her practice to be sure the keypad had accepted her fingerprint scan. The locking mechanism clicked free, and when he pushed the door open and closed to make the lock catch again, she caught a quick glimpse of clothes thrown over a sofa and a stack of Chinese takeout containers on the floor. Barton caught her looking, and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, messy. Coulson's always giving me hell for it."

She hadn't thought of chastising him, only wondered what it must feel like to be comfortable enough in a space to leave personal effects strewn about.

Barton started walking again, passing two more doors; he stopped at the third one down from his.

"This one's yours," he said, and repeated the routine of badge swipe, pin number (1-3-5-7 this time), fingerprint scan. He was trying to be fair then, giving her access to his room while he had access to hers.

"Who else?" she asked, and dreaded the reply. How closely would she have to guard herself?

"Just Fury. Figured it'd make you twitchy if a ton of agents could let themselves in."

She felt a surge of gratitude she would never express while Barton programmed the keypad to recognize her thumb print. This time he let her push the door open.

The room was standard apartment, one large area separated into living room and kitchen by carpet and tile floors. There was a microfiber sofa and a pair of armchairs in the living room, a coffee table, and a set of metal brackets fixed to the interior wall, which she assumed were meant for a television. The kitchen was outfitted with chrome appliances and faux-marble countertops, a pantry, and a little square dining table with four chairs. The space was largely devoid of personality or color, save for a thick fleece blanket folded neatly across the back of the sofa. Barton, obviously.

A pair of pizza boxes were stacked on the dining table, and while greasy takeaway pizza would never be her first choice, the smell still drew her attention away from observing the layout of the room almost immediately. The pancakes Coulson had forced on her had been hours ago, and before that only part of Barton's chocolate bar on the plane.

"Tour first," Barton said, following her gaze and grinning, and she reluctantly turned her focus back to the room. "Everything's new, but standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D. You're supposed to have televisions, a tablet, computer - fun stuff - but Fury stripped everything out, said you'll get it back for good behavior. Security cameras there and there, those go away with good behavior." He pointed out the cameras in the kitchen and living room, then moved to the coffee table and retrieved a remote. "This is climate control and lighting. You've got a view, so you push this and..."

The back wall of the living room retracted into the ceiling, revealing a massive pane of glass and the same view of the city they'd been observing from the elevator. She masked her astonishment, but only just. Barton smirked anyway.

"Bedroom next," he announced, and indicated a door off the living room. She trailed behind as he pushed into the bedroom and flipped the light. "Ah..."

He scrubbed a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, threw her a quick glance but wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Standard issue?" she asked, and eyed the downy purple-and-white comforter and mountain of pillows on the bed.

"Housewarming gift," Barton mumbled, and dug the toe of his boot into the carpet rather than look at her. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s thread count sucks."

"It's nice," she told him, an understatement of her feelings if she were being honest, and suppressed the childish impulse to throw herself in the middle of the bed, although she wasn't sure why she bothered. Barton had allegedly been following her for two weeks, and had probably seen her do just that in her overpriced swank hotel room in Munich. More than once.

"You've got nice towels," Barton added, seemingly encouraged by her assessment and thankfully choosing not to comment on the heat she could feel stinging her cheeks. "And groceries if you don't feel like going down to the cafeteria. Mostly healthy stuff, but there's soda and chocolate too."

She scanned the corners of the room as he spoke, until she spotted the security camera mounted in the shadows. She stepped closer to the bed, judging the angle.

"No blind spots," Barton told her, "but the cameras aren't being monitored like the ones in Containment. Long as you answer the door when we knock, we won't spy on you. If you still want to hide, you can shut the bathroom door. Fury didn't take the surveillance that far."

She hummed her understanding and gave the security camera one last scrutinizing glance. The rest of the room was sparse; a dresser, a closet, another set of brackets on the wall across from the bed to mount a television, and a nightstand with a lamp. There was a lavender scented candle and a dog-eared paperback on the nightstand, too.

Like the blanket on the sofa, the items were clearly an attempt to make the space feel inviting. The effort made her feel more uncertain than comfortable, and she had another instinctual instance of doubting Barton's motives before reminding herself to take his actions at face value. She seemed to constantly be reaffirming her decision to trust him.

"That's one of mine," Barton said, and indicated the book. "Wasn't sure what you liked, but it's not a sappy romance thing so..."

She took the book and examined the cover, _A Game of Thrones_ superimposed over a golden crown.

"Maybe I like sappy romances," she countered.

"Do you?" he asked skeptically.

"No," she assured him, and tried to smile a little. They were friends, and they weren't arguing for once, and Barton had bought her a housewarming gift. Friends smiled at each other. Genuine smiles that weren't inspired by snark or swearing or one-upmanship.

The expression felt false, like she was working a mark.

"That one's good," Barton said. He turned to leave the bedroom, and she laid the book back on the nightstand to follow. "War and dragons and medieval espionage. Lots of plot twists. Lots of dicks, too, but just skip over those parts. S'what I do."

What kind of book had he given her? She cast a doubtful glance back at the nightstand, but asking Barton to explain his dragon porn seemed somehow more awkward than her hollow attempt at smiling.

He dropped into a chair at the table, and the casual gesture made her wonder if he'd ever felt out-of-place a day in his life. She'd certainly never felt so at-ease, even in what passed for her own space. She pulled out the chair beside him, but he caught her wrist.

"Uh-uh. No blood at the dinner table," he said, and gave her a shove toward the sink.

She looked down to find Barton's blood still staining her fingernails, although the bright red had dried to a dull brownish-black. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably, guilt clamped down hard in her chest again, and she suddenly didn't feel like having any of Barton's pizza. She moved dutifully to the sink anyway and used a pump of lemon-scented hand soap to scrub the blood away.

_Why?_ flashed across her mind, and she couldn't come up with an answer. The water ran too hot but she kept her hands under the stream, adding a new pain to the catalog of bruising and lacerations. If she asked, Barton would say he was giving her the same chance Coulson had given him. Maybe that really was the sincere answer. She didn't have a frame of reference for sincere. She couldn't imagine attempting to save any of the Red Room girls, much less a mark, out of pure altruism. If their roles were switched, if Barton had caused her as much trouble as she'd given him, she would have killed him days ago.

"Stop pouting," Barton ordered firmly, "and hurry up. I'm starving."

And S.H.I.E.L.D. were going out of their way, too. They were trying very hard to win her over, despite all the trouble she'd caused. Natalia found the apartment overwhelming, disconcerting. The quarters supplied to her first by the Red Room and then the KGB had been functional and serviceable, borderline comfortable, but never furnished with plush sofas and flat screens. She had been their _greatest asset_ \- a phrase her handlers threw around to stroke her ego - and yet she'd never been gifted with computers and tablets earmarked for personal entertainment. Director Fury was up to something.

She shut off the water and looked back to find Barton waiting for her. He hadn't touched the food at all, sitting instead with his arms crossed and a displeased expression.

"And grab a couple sodas from the fridge," he added.

She complied, and when she pulled out a chair this time Barton let her sit. He didn't give her another moment of consideration, just flipped the first box open and gave an appreciative moan of longing.

"Plates?" she suggested. Barton shot her a scandalized expression, then pulled a slice free and turned a critical eye on the thick strings of cheese still tethering it to the rest of the pizza.

"Better straight outta the box," he said, and lifted the pizza high to direct the long ropes of cheese into his mouth. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at his manners, but watching him eat brought her appetite back by degrees until she shoved away her concern about Director Fury and her new quarters and the idea that Barton had spied on her in a rare unguarded moment in her hotel room.

She took her own slice from the box, carefully folding the strings of cheese on top with her fingers; Barton made an exasperated noise. It was as greasy and disgusting as she had presumed, but unexpectedly pleasant, and not the worst she'd ever had. Or maybe she was too hungry to care. They ate in silence, save for a brief admonishment of ' _Slow down, you'll make yourself sick_ ' from Barton. The calories and caffeine brought her focus sharply back, and the events of the past few hours seemed to grow more inconsequential the longer they sat. Garner's drugs had worked, the Black Widow was gone for the moment, and neither she nor Barton had done any lasting damage to each other. The light outside faded, giving the room a soft pink glow, and even that was comforting.

"So I'm guessing that was the biggest gun in your arsenal," Barton said, when she'd tossed the remaining crust from her third slice back into the box and drained her soda. "NATO, really?"

She went to the fridge and retrieved another round of sodas, weighing her response. She could admit the truth. She could describe her flash of irrational fear as she realized Barton couldn't take her side if he was locked up. She could tell him how she hadn't considered what information to share with Coulson, instead immediately choosing the bit that would have the most shock value. She could admit that she had indeed given up a large portion of her leverage.

But what was the truth? She wasn't sure what information S.H.I.E.L.D. would judge valuable, she had no way of knowing if Fury and the Council cared overly much about gathering intel on the KGB when there were more serious threats to national security taking precedence. She could save a handful of dignitaries and diplomats, she could give Director Fury enough information to cripple a South American sex trafficking ring. She knew of a fledgling terrorist organization in Iran, knew enough about their funding and benefactors to wipe them out before they found a foothold, if she had the manpower S.H.I.E.L.D. could provide. Maybe she wasn't screwed after all.

"That one was the most impressive," she said at last, taking her seat again, "but not necessarily the most important."

Barton sighed and shook his head at the non-answer, then gave her a soft kick under the table.

"Thanks for saving my ass, Red."

There was a quiet warmth behind the words, and it made her feel tethered to him in a way she hadn't before, a give-and-take dimension added to the relationship. An effortless, pleasant sensation.

She nudged him with her heel in return, plucked another slice of pizza from the box. This time she tried his technique of dangling the long strings of cheese into her mouth. The effort earned her a smile and a quiet burst of laughter, and she liked that, too.

"Did they really send you to your room?"

"Slap on the wrist," Barton confirmed. "Had to listen to a couple of Fury's lectures, got a little side-eye from the Council. Nothing like you were imagining. Coulson told me," Barton added with a bemused expression. "Were you planning a rescue mission?"

"I wouldn't bother," she scoffed. Barton kicked her again, fell silent for a beat.

"You like it?" he asked.

She wasn't sure if he meant the room or the pizza or S.H.I.E.L.D.

"We're neighbors," she observed rather than answering, and wondered briefly if Barton had anything to do with the setup.

"You got lucky," Barton replied around a mouthful of pepperoni. "Usually new recruits and junior agents get the smaller rooms downstairs, but Fury wanted you guarded 24/7 so you got a presidential suite. This entire floor's S.T.R.I.K.E. Special ops," he added for clarification. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best agents."

"So which agent did Fury kick out of their room?" she asked, and Barton snorted.

"That'd be Agent Brooks. He was a shit neighbor, and he had the bad luck to be on base so Fury could evict him. These rooms usually sit empty, anyway. The S.T.R.I.K.E. guys stay out on back-to-back missions most of the time."

Barton spoke of the other agents as if he wasn't a part of their group, but he definitely lived on the S.T.R.I.K.E.-only floor. She wondered how far his policy of no lies and no secrets extended.

"You aren't S.T.R.I.K.E.?" she asked, and put just the right note of disinterest behind her tone to make it a throwaway question. Barton pulled a disgusted expression.

"Nah. I'm just Hawkeye. Fury keeps threatening to stick me on a team, but I work better alone and he knows it."

"Learned your lesson about partners after all?" she guessed.

"The S.T.R.I.K.E. teams are too regimented," Barton said dismissively. "Entire missions planned down to the last detail, every eventuality prepared for, protocol shoved so far up their asses they recite the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook while they sleep. They don't see past the dossier. If I was S.T.R.I.K.E., I would've taken my shot and put you down while you were busy not killing your mark's family that night."

There was the catch to the new apartment. She was surrounded by agents who probably wouldn't bother to consider or understand Barton's decision to bring her in. Was that why Barton had given her access to his room? _If things go to shit you'll have somewhere to hide._

"Is Hawkeye better than S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best agents?" she asked. "No false modesty."

"I'm better than most of them," he said after a moment's consideration, "and an even match for the rest. You're better than all of them."

He didn't say it like a compliment, and she didn't take it as one, but it was a comforting assessment. She caught what she thought was his unspoken meaning, as he had read her unspoken question: they would be capable enough to take down Fury's S.T.R.I.K.E. agents as a team and get clear of the base, if the situation became dire.

There was a brief knock from the corridor outside. Natalia sat alert, licked grease from her fingers and watched Barton cross the room to answer the door, but didn't feel any of the expected anxiety about the meeting. She had outsmarted Garner once already, proved herself superior.

"You look better," Garner said in greeting, and gave her an encouraging smile. He was trying too hard again and it made her bristle with annoyance.

He sat across from her at the table and laid out a file. Her eyes immediately found the name printed neatly on the tab: _Natalia Romanova_. A second file in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records, a medical one this time. She narrowed her eyes and scowled.

"C'mon Nat, don't do the hardass KGB thing," Barton said. He took his place beside her and chose another piece of pizza.

Her contempt for medical files and being analyzed wasn't an act, but she made an effort to school her expression into something passably pleasant. She wanted S.H.I.E.L.D. to fix her programming. That was the initial reason she'd agreed to follow Barton back to D.C., and Dr. Garner likely had the skills to make it happen.

"Can you tell me how you feel?" Garner asked. He flipped open the file and shuffled through the papers inside.

"I don't hear them anymore," she offered, and assumed Barton had filled him in on the whispered orders that had been dogging her. That was a safe topic, and relevant to her interests. She would learn what she wanted to know and end the interview on her terms, before they lapsed into a psych evaluation.

"That's good," Garner said, and sounded genuinely pleased. He slid the file across the table, inviting her to read the results of his tests. "Something in the first compound left you vulnerable, pulled down the barriers you've built up against the Red Room's control. Clint said there was a man you couldn't shoot. You froze after you'd been putting bullets through the rest of them without a second thought. Clint said you started acting strangely after that. You don't have to confirm, but my guess is you have strong memories or emotions associated with the man at the airfield."

A little shiver ran through her at the mention of him; she turned it into a shrug to save face and averted her eyes.

"This isn't your fault, Natalia," Garner said gently. "Clint should have mentioned you weren't feeling well. Nick shouldn't have left you in solitary on a hunger strike. It was too much stress, anyone would break under those circumstances."

"They didn't train me to break," she snarled, perhaps a little too defensively. The idea of weakness paired with the man from the airfield made her shudder again. "I _didn't_ break. That's exactly what was supposed to happen. That's what the Black Widow was made for. If you'd sent anyone besides Barton into the cell, I would have killed them and escaped, raided this base, and crippled S.H.I.E.L.D."

"And you're proud of those skills?" Garner asked, the words maddeningly calm. "You would prefer I didn't bring Natalia back next time?"

There it was. Garner wasn't supposed to help, he was supposed to back her into a corner, talk in circles and get her to admit something so damning Director Fury would have a reason to put her down. Barton rested his hand on her leg under the table and gave a little squeeze; she startled at the unexpected touch, her chair scraping back, and he jerked his hand away.

"I want you to _fix_ Natalia," she retorted, and immediately winced, her voice echoing too loudly in her ears. She hadn't meant to throw her cards on the table so easily. That wasn't even the main source of her motivation, not anymore, but Garner and Fury wouldn't care about the new, slowly-evolving reason she chose to stay.

"I can't undo what they've done," Garner said, and she hated the naked pity in his eyes. It made the sensation of dying hope ache a little more. Garner leaned forward and pulled a sheet of paper to the top of the file, but she couldn't muster any interest. "The injection will level you out, counteract the effects of the first compound, but it's not a long-term solution to your programming. If you were to go back to the KGB, or if your handlers find you, they could still use the old triggers to control you."

"I'm not going back," she said, and the words tasted hollow.

"This could be a start," Garner offered, and indicated the contents of the file, "but unless we know the exact methods the Red Room used, we could end up doing irreversible damage. It's not a risk I'd take."

That caught her attention, inspired another swell of childish optimism, because she _did_ know how they'd programmed her, every detail, every trigger and test result. She'd been sitting on the information for months, at a loss about how to apply it to reverse things or who to trust with it. Certainly none of her acquaintances or colleagues, people who would just as likely sell her out to her handlers as help. Now she was at S.H.I.E.L.D., not Garner, and not Director Fury, and definitely not the Council. Not even Barton. She wasn't ready for him to know her that way, know all the damning intimate specifics. The risk of giving anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. that kind of control...

"Will I be interrogated tomorrow?" she asked, rather than consider it.

"You'll have an _interview_ with Director Fury tomorrow," Garner replied. "If you cooperate you'll meet with Agent Hill later in the afternoon, to discuss any intelligence you have that could be useful to S.H.I.E.L.D. _Interviews_ , not interrogations. Clint can tag along if you'd be more comfortable."

She gave him a quick sideways glance, but he wouldn't meet her eyes, and there was a new crease between his eyebrows and a frown at the corner of his lips. The expression gave her a jolt of unease that made her pulse jump.

"Thank you," she told Garner without smiling, and pushed his file back across the table, a clear dismissal. She watched his eyes flick between her and Barton.

"I'm around, when you're ready to talk," Garner said slowly, still studying them. He took the file and stood. Barton's chair scraped back as well, and he made the unnecessary gesture of escorting Garner across the room with a quiet thank-you of his own. He was trying to distance himself from her. She watched him warily.

Barton shut the door behind Garner and turned, arms crossed as he studied her with an appraising expression.

"Is that the only reason you're here?" he asked levelly. "You were going to manipulate us into breaking your programming?"

His tone was calm but there was a storm growing behind his eyes - unnaturally blue in the dim glow of late evening - a spark that reminded her of their first fight in the alley and the cold intensity he'd used to pin her to the brick wall.

_Not this_ , she thought, _not on top of everything else_ , because she loathed the thought of losing Barton so suddenly. But he deserved an answer, even if the idea of the conversation made her chest draw tight with nerves. She ran her tongue over her lips, weighed her options. She pushed her chair back and took a step away from the table.

"That was the idea," she admitted cautiously.

"Then what?" he demanded, his words becoming louder by degrees. "Run? Sneak out in the middle of the night and disappear?"

"Yes," she said. His eyes flashed dangerously. "But I can't now, not anymore. I want to stay."

"What changed your mind?" he shot back sarcastically. Of course he thought she only wanted to stay because she was out of options.

"You. I'm staying for you." It was a stupid thing to say - the truth - and it left her feeling small and vulnerable in a way she wasn't accustomed to. She cast her mind around, searched for a more solid stance, added, "If I run, I'll prove them right. You'll be in trouble again."

A shadow passed over his features, a carefully neutral mask belied only by the hard intensity he used to stare her down.

"You don't owe me anything," Barton said, and the sharp, dangerous calm was back. "If you see your opportunity, take it. Garner isn't the only doctor here. I won't tell Fury what you're planning."

Why did she have to be so shit at honesty?

"I'm staying _because_ of you," she amended, frustration creeping in to give the words a harder edge than she intended. He stepped forward and she automatically fell back the same distance to compensate. "You don't treat me like an asset, I'm just Natalia, and...and it's different. Good different."

"Hey, we're just talking," Barton said softly, and she realized she'd taken up a defensive stance. He held out one hand in a placating gesture. The hand she'd almost broken. "It's a disagreement. We're okay. I _really_ don't want to fight again."

He held her gaze and she shook her head with an apologetic expression, stood straight again and let her hands fall to her sides. She couldn't remember a time when disagreements weren't fight-or-flight situations.

"You like ice cream?" he asked, and brushed past her to the freezer. The sudden change of topic threw her, and she felt a little surge of indignity.

"You can't just-"

"Yeah I can," he interrupted, all haughty confidence, and tossed her a round pint carton. "Sweet tooth."

The flavor was C _hocolate Therapy_ and she conceded that he could, in fact, talk her down with ice cream. He opened a drawer and retrieved a pair of spoons, slid up to sit on the counter, and pried the lid off his own pint. She gave in and hauled herself up to sit beside him.

"I knew something was up," he told her, and lifted the ice cream from her grasp long enough to take the lid off and jam the spoon in before passing it back. "Figured you were trying to use me for something. It was too easy to get you to agree to join S.H.I.E.L.D. You didn't ask any questions."

"You talk too much. You didn't leave me any questions to ask."

It was a halfhearted jab, but Barton grinned a little anyway.

"I thought maybe we were making progress, though. You warmed up a little, it seemed like you wanted to be one of the good guys. I guess I've been afraid I was wrong about you. Just now you had me believing I _was_ wrong, and I didn't like myself very much for that, and I turned it back on you."

An unspoken _I'm sorry_.

She found Barton's simple black-and-white view tiresome. Her entire existence was varying hues of grey, choosing the lesser of two evils, accepting circumstances she couldn't change, prioritizing survival over altruism.

"I can work for S.H.I.E.L.D., but that won't ever make me one of the good guys," she replied. Barton chose to ignore her.

"When did you decide for real?"

She considered for a moment, made little tracks in her ice cream with the spoon. She instinctively focused on the car chase, how effortlessly they'd worked together and communicated almost without speaking at all, but that wasn't right. They wouldn't have been able to fight like that unless a bond was already there.

"I think it was Coulson giving you the order to kill me again. You took my side."

"I chose to take your side a long time before that," Barton said quietly.

They had their ice cream in silence, and she suppressed the urge to tell him how dumb it was to exalt her for missing the first opportunity to complete her mission. Nobody had ever acknowledged her attempts to minimize collateral damage and defy orders, except to punish her for it.

"I'm sorry I lied, at first," she told him softly. That was the best she could do, because she didn't know the words to explain how he was slowly making her see what he saw, and how she didn't loathe herself quiet as much when they were sat on the counter eating ice cream. She liked his idea that she could be better.

"Well," Barton said slowly, "I don't think it counts as a lie. We weren't friends then, and you didn't know the rules, so you're off the hook."

He did that thing again, leaned into her space and nudged her shoulder, and her stomach did a little flip that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"You're here for the right reasons now. That's what counts. And if you think about it, Fury probably isn't going to send you out into the field if you're still susceptible to being controlled. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't in the business of brainwashing people, but we have resources. I'll make sure we take care of what they did to you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she warned him.

"Let me worry about that. You just concentrate on not being an asshole in your interviews. The idea is to convince Fury he wants you around, not piss everyone off."

"It's a defense mechanism," she told him, surprised he hadn't figured it out. "I don't trust the other agents."

"You mean you _know_ you're doing it? The scowling and the sarcasm and that thing you do where you shut down and don't talk, that's all on purpose?"

"I do everything on purpose."

And he probably didn't realize how true it was, how much time she spent dissecting conversations and body language and working out how to prey on others' weaknesses, to keep herself safe.

"You're such a pain in the ass," Barton groaned. "Grace period officially over. Next time you're mean I'm calling you out. Knock it off, okay?"

She shrugged a bit and ate her ice cream.

"It's unprofessional," Barton continued, feigning serious, and jabbed his spoon at her for emphasis. "Immature. You're a child."

"Says the man who served pizza and ice cream for dinner. Point for me."

"Point," Barton agreed grudgingly, and shoved her off the counter with a grin.

She didn't retaliate, just leaned against the counter instead and savored the reassurance of Barton's teasing. They were still partners, friends. Judging from the quick turn he'd made from angry words to calming gestures, he hadn't been truly upset. Maybe it really had been just a disagreement. Maybe she was too concerned about everything falling apart.

"I'll try," she said softly, the best she could do. "You'll have to tell me who to trust."

"We'll have that fight tomorrow. You probably won't agree with half of what I tell you, and I'm beat. Go shower, I'll clean up," Barton offered, sliding off the counter beside her. He tossed the spoons in the sink, collected the ice cream and returned it to the freezer. "And I swear to God, if you come out wearing that sweatshirt again-"

She stripped his pullover and flung it the short distance between them, hitting him squarely in the face as he turned from the freezer. She lifted her chin and arched a brow in challenge, then turned and swept back to bedroom before he could process the surprise attack.

"You can keep it," Barton called after her, and she could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Just wash the stupid thing. You've been wearing it for three days straight, it has bloodstains."

She ran the shower until the small bathroom steamed up, then stood under the spray and let the scalding water beat the remaining tension from her shoulders. Exhaustion seeped in to replace it, little waves compounding until she wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and forget the past few hours. There had been too many dips and crests, too much disappointment and strain, even if the easy way she interacted with Barton made everything a bit better.

She found a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants in the dresser, towel dried her hair, then went out to find Barton. He was on the couch, frowning down at his phone. He'd used the remote control to bring the wall back, blocking view of the city, and the room was pleasantly dim. She hesitated in the doorway, chewed her lip, studied his aggrieved expression.

"Something wrong?" she asked, and half hoped he wouldn't answer.

"Just Coulson," he said dismissively, and patted the space beside him. "I'm due for another lecture."

She sat beside him with her legs tucked to the side, and he relaxed a bit more and tipped his head back. He stretched one arm across the back of the sofa, not quite around her shoulders, not close enough to make her scoot away. She recalled the way she'd startled at his touch earlier and felt a little sting of remorse.

"Shit day, huh?" he said to the ceiling.

She thought of the half-remembered brawl with Barton in the containment cell. She recalled all the suspicion and disagreements and weighted conversations, the carefully measured interaction with Garner and how useless he'd turned out to be. She saw Barton beside her, first in the cell and then in the elevator and then at the table, offering reassurance and giving her...something, some part of himself he held back from Coulson and Garner and the other agents, different from the quips and cavalier attitude. _If things go to shit you'll have somewhere to hide_ and _I'll make sure we take care of what they did to you._

Natalia leaned back until his forearm was warm against the nape of her neck. She watched his lips stretch into a slow smile, met the slightly questioning gaze he cut in her direction.

"Not the worst," she assessed softly.

"Not the worst," he agreed, and breathed a long, deep sigh through his nose. They sat in silence for a while, Barton relaxed but perfectly still, and she got the impression he was afraid of startling her again. "I'm pulling guard duty for a while, if you need anything," he said eventually.

"You don't have to."

It was a reflexive response, and one she immediately regretted. It was a weak response, because three days ago she would have said ' _I don't want you to_ ' and because now if there had to be a guard, she'd rather it be Barton.

"Just for a couple hours," he shrugged. He stood and slid the phone into his pocket, then ruffled her hair and dodged out of reach toward the door. "Shirt's in the dryer," he added, and gave her that shit-eating grin.

"Goodbye, Barton," she retorted, half-teasing sarcasm, and wished her couch had come with throw pillows.

She sat for a moment to be sure he wasn't coming back, then moved quietly to retrieve the sweatshirt from the dryer. It was deliciously warm, and she pulled it on over her t-shirt with a challenging glare at the security camera in the corner of the kitchen, just in case Barton was being an ass and spying on her. He seemed to like I-told-you-so's.

She decided not to acknowledge the empty little chill that had coursed through her as Barton abandoned her on the sofa, or how the pullover made it better.

Her thoughts strayed longingly to the bed in the next room, but she took the time to prowl through the kitchen drawers on the return trip, Barton's words settling firmly in the back of her mind. _If things go to shit you'll have somewhere to hide._ The rooms felt too big without Barton, susceptible and easily breached, but she couldn't draw up the motivation to search for exploits other agents could use to get in.

There was an empty knife block on the counter, but she couldn't find any knives, not even a dull butter knife. Probably something else she'd have to earn with good behavior. She scowled at Director Fury's games and moved on. There was a pair of scissors in the back of the last drawer, buried beneath a stack of folded kitchen towels. Had Barton put them there?

The scissors were on the cheap end of the spectrum, metal blades attached to plastic handles. Easy to break. She forced them apart until the plastic connector in the middle snapped, leaving her with two functional daggers. She slipped one half of the scissors immediately into the front pocket of the pullover, then slid the other down the side of the sofa. Satisfactory, but not up to the usual standards she required to feel safe in a safe house. It would do, just for the night.

She examined the nightstand in the bedroom too, but the drawers were empty save for a lighter. She tested it once, watched the flame dance for a moment, then returned it to the drawer. She wouldn't waste it on lighting Barton's candle.

Natalia slid into bed and clicked off the lamp on the nightstand, but even with Barton posted in the corridor outside, sleep refused to come. She kept throwing little glances to the door or listening for footsteps in the living room. She gave it up after a while and dragged the comforter off the bed, gathered the paperback from the nightstand, and settled on the sofa instead.

She found herself able to relax a bit, facing the door. Even if she fell asleep on the sofa, she'd know the instant someone entered the room, and they wouldn't have an opportunity to catch her off guard in the bedroom. She needed to sleep, to be sharp tomorrow for Fury's interrogation. Late-night reading had always been a reliable way to knock herself out, so she opened Barton's book to the first chapter.

There was a postcard slotted between the pages, presumably there to act as a bookmark. The front of the postcard was illustrated with a cartoon of a happily smiling mug of beer. The little speech bubble above its head read _Guten Tag!_

She flipped it over, not really expecting anything to be written on the back, but curious anyway. Barton didn't disappoint.

_It's funny because that's what you said right before you didn't kill me. Thanks, by the way._

So he hadn't just stuck the postcard in as a last-minute bookmark. It was actually meant for her.

The next lines were crossed out, but he hadn't done a good job of it. Like the first line, they were written in black ink, but he had used blue to mark through them. She could still make out the words:

_Hope you say yes to Shield. You just need someone in your corner, like I did when Coulson found me. I think I can be that guy if you'll let me._

She considered the timeline for a moment. He had probably picked up the postcard in the bakery where he'd purchased their breakfast pastries, maybe written the lines back in the safe house while she still slept.

He hadn't found the nerve to give it to her, or perhaps hadn't had the opportunity, because he had been forced to revise the words.

Squeezed underneath in the same blue ink he'd used for crossing out were two more lines:

_I don't think you feel it yet, but you'll be happy you said yes one day. We'll make a good t-_

Those words were covered with scribbles, too.

The sentiment he'd chosen to express in the end made her smile in a way the crossed-out words didn't.

_Looks like I'm stuck with you now, you said yes. Fuck me. You're going to make me regret this, aren't you?_

_p.s. you snore._

There wasn't much space left with all the scribbles and crossing out, but he'd managed to squeeze his name into the lower right corner, just _Clint_ in loopy cursive. The T was crossed with an arrow.

The postcard was clearly a case of 'I saw this and it reminded me of you'. She had pulled the same trick on marks during deep cover ops, to give the sham relationship that little something extra, but the gesture had never been directed at her, much less in a sincere way. She chewed her lip and rubbed her thumb over the corner where he'd written his name.

Barton had bothered to remember the first words she'd spoken to him, while she couldn't recall much about their initial exchange at all. She remembered the actions, the strain in her arms as she held both guns aimed at his head, the way her thoughts jumped from one scenario to another while she looked for a way out of the encounter, how his finger twitched against the string of his bow just before he released the arrow.

She hadn't taken the time to really _see_ Barton during their first meeting. He was just another variable, a possible target, probable collateral damage. She felt a little twinge of guilt she didn't care to examine.

That word was back - _friends_ \- and this time she entertained it beyond just agreeing with Barton's incessant prodding.

She slotted the postcard between the back pages of the book for safekeeping, flipped to the first chapter, and began reading. If she meant to really become friends with Clint she'd have to learn more about him, beyond which weapons and fighting techniques he favored, and the dog-eared paperback he so obviously enjoyed was as good a place as any to start.


	10. Trying

_Lead with the holes in Fury's intel_ , Natalia thought, eyes fixed on the grey tile of the hallway. _Establish superiority_.

A man had been executed in the courtyard the morning she left for Munich. The mole who had passed Barton the details of her mission, if she had to guess. Bruised and bloody and with six messy amputations where fingers should have been, he had begged for his life in English. Very fluent, unaccented English. S.H.I.E.L.D probably didn't know what happened to him.

A decent start, but she needed more.

"Good morning to you, too," Barton said beside her.

Right, Barton. Clint. She'd forgotten about him, so fixated on the impending interrogation.

He stopped walking and laid a hand on a chrome doorknob, but _this_ couldn't be Director Fury's office, situated down the middle of an antiseptic-smelling corridor.

Antiseptic?

She darted out of Barton's reach and flicked her eyes to the frosted glass door. _Radiology_ was stamped across the glass in tall black letters.

"What is this?" she demanded, and oh, every instinct screamed for her to run.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" he accused.

"You said 'good morning'. Sarcastically," she bit back.

"Before that."

She came up blank. She recalled the quiet drone of his voice, but hadn't been listening at all. She'd been careful to nod and hum noncommittal little noises at him, but the greater part of her attention had remained distracted with finding an angle to gain the upper hand in the interrogation.

"I told you I was taking you to have your ankle looked at. And you shrugged and went ' _hmm_ ' and I assumed that meant you were okay with it. Obviously not, if the murder-face is any indication."

"I'm not giving you a-"

Barton arched one eyebrow.

She acknowledge the tension in her shoulders and the spread of her feet, the slight bend in her knees and the way her nails dug into her palms, and okay, maybe she did give the impression she wanted to kick his ass again.

"You have a thing with doctors?"

The question wasn't sympathetic, just a succinct straight-to-the-point assessment.

"Yes," she admitted, because one of Clint's rules was no lying, and if he knew anything at all about the Red Room he shouldn't have to ask why.

"Me too," he said, surprising her once again with his open honesty. "Well, probably not the same way you do. But when I was a kid I got real good at hiding things, pretending I didn't need to go to the nurse or the clinic or the ER. I got real good at making up excuses and convincing myself I'd be okay. That's not usually how it worked out."

He gave her a pointed look and an encouraging little smile. Despite his easy demeanor, the admission probably cost him something, and even though she realized that, it still didn't make her any more inclined to go into the exam room.

"Do I have a choice?" she snarled, and could guess the answer.

 _No_.

"Sure. You wanna walk around on a broken foot, that's your business, but we won't have time for coffee if you keep this up."

He pushed through the door and left her standing alone in the corridor.

A test? It had to be a test. If she took off, she proved she wasn't sincere about wanting a second chance with S.H.I.E.L.D., that she wasn't willing to adhere to their rules. If she followed Clint they would know she had a weakness in him, that the trust could be used to manipulate her. She couldn't see any cameras in the corridor, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Someone was always watching.

She leaned against the wall and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. What if she just stood in the hallway until Clint came back? She liked the idea for a moment, but that wasn't any good, either. Waiting around for orders gave the impression of compliance, and that was the last idea she wanted S.H.I.E.L.D. to have about her.

She was fairly certain the ankle wasn't broken. It throbbed and it was swollen and an interesting shade of purple, but that was just from running down alleys and picking fights with Clint. She couldn't think of a single reason to fraternize with S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors and sit for an x-ray.

Except Clint was supposed to escort her to the interrogation, and he _wasn't_ supposed to leave her unsupervised down empty corridors. If anyone came along and caught her...

She growled a frustrated noise and followed Clint into the radiology lab.

"-and I'm benched, anyway," Clint was explaining disconsolately to a man in a white coat. "You don't have to give me the restricted activity speech. They're just fingers-hey, it worked!"

Barton - Clint, he was Clint now, they were friends - beamed at her with an expression half surprised and half relieved, and of course leaving her in the hallway hadn't been a S.H.I.E.L.D. conspiracy, just another one of his attempts to win her cooperation without force. Annoying, but also somehow appreciated.

They were in a small waiting area, rows of chairs against the walls to the left and right, a receptionist counter and a closed door straight ahead.

No exam room, Clint explained, because he had anticipated her being weird about it. She sat on one of the plastic chairs instead and the doctor crouched on the carpet to examine her ankle. Clint leaned against the counter with crossed arms and begged her with his eyes to behave and not kick the doctor in the face.

She obliged, but only just. The unfamiliar hands made her want to squirm and pull away, and the waiting area was too small for a confrontation, and she couldn't see what was happening on the other side of either of the frosted glass doors.

The diagnosis was ' _probably not broken but let's do an X-ray anyway_ ', so she forced down the anxious twisting in her gut and followed Clint and the doctor deeper into the medical wing. More closed doors, an unnatural silence, and a noticeable lack of staff. She had been preoccupied as they left her room and caught an elevator earlier, but got the impression they hadn't met anyone then, either.

A new swoop of nerves, and this time she wouldn't ignore instincts.

"There isn't anyone here," she accused, as Clint pushed open the door beside a plaque that read _X-ray Lab 2_. There were no technicians inside, nobody to run the machine or give instructions. The doctor stepped into the room and began prepping for the x-ray.

"Did you want people here?" he countered, genuine confusion drawing his brow together.

"Did you tell them all to get out?"

"Yeah, what'd you think?"

She chewed her lip and didn't want to share the conclusions she'd so easily jumped back to, S.H.I.E.L.D. conspiracies and tests of her self-control.

"Aw, come on, Nat. You know I wouldn't let anything bad happen. I asked all the staff to leave, figured you wouldn't go for it if we were outnumbered."

"What about the elevator and the other hallways?"

"Coincidence. It's eight-thirty, everyone's either working out or in the cafeteria already. Look, two minutes here, and we can wait for Price outside."

The name meant nothing, and her confusion must have showed.

"The doctor," Clint prompted disbelievingly. "Dr. Price, I literally just introduced..."

He trailed off and clenched his jaw, blew a deep breath through his nose.

"Natalia?" he asked softly. He leaned in closer and tilted her chin up, searched her eyes while his thumb absently traced the bruise he'd left on her cheek in the containment cell.

The unexpected intimacy startled her so much she almost missed the way he reached behind with his free hand and retrieved the phone from the back pocket of his jeans. Almost.

"It's not that," she told him quickly, and pushed his hand away.

He had every reason to keep his guard up. She couldn't blame him for having a twitchy trigger finger. But his suspicion still stung, and the tracking bracelet was suddenly a heavy weight against her wrist. That was the real reason he'd asked the medical staff to clear out. He didn't trust her.

Clint gave his friendship freely, and was willing to give her second and even third chances. He was honest and genuine and he made a real effort. She believed him when he said he wouldn't let anything bad happen. For the first time she could recall, she trusted someone to watch her back. She felt secure enough with Clint to pull down at least some of the barriers and rules she used to keep herself safe.

She had done very little to earn that same kind of confidence from him. She had assumed being civil was enough to win him over. For all his talk and kind gestures, she was still the Black Widow to him, she understood that now, and a track record like hers was hard to overcome. It would take more than an impromptu book club to forge a _real_ relationship with Clint.

She didn't know how to do that, and the realization that Clint meant more to her than she probably meant to him left her feeling hollow and a little sad.

"It's not my programming," she reassured him, and there was a sullen echo to the words that she didn't entirely like, but didn't bother to mask, either.

"What's up with you, then? You've been a million miles away all morning."

"I've been thinking about the interrogation," she said, and immediately wished she had said _interview_ instead, when Clint gave her an admonishing little frown.

"Okay," he said, although he continued to frown and scrutinize her. "Let's get this done, then we'll worry about Fury."

He waited beside the door while she had the x-ray, then led her silently back down the corridor, through the waiting area, and into the hallway outside.

"So what's bothering you about the interview? Besides how you think Fury's gonna beat the shit out of you, which he isn't, because S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't operate like that."

All intelligence organizations operated like that, but she wouldn't bother trying to convince him. Maybe she was a special case. Maybe if Coulson was still siding with Clint, if she had two agents vouching for her, the interview wouldn't degenerate into threats and violence. She couldn't retaliate if it did, not if she wanted S.H.I.E.L.D.'s help.

"I need to know what intel to give up, when to talk and when to deflect, how much to save for later, that sort of thing. I need to you tell me what Director Fury wants to hear."

"This isn't that kind of meeting, Nat," he said gently. He sat on the cold tile floor, back against the wall and legs stretched across the corridor. She found herself sliding down the wall to sit beside him without thinking, and he smiled. "Fury isn't bringing you in so he can play games. He just wants you to tell your side of the story. He's going to ask why you took the offer to join S.H.I.E.L.D."

"So what do I tell him?"

"Everything you've told me, even the bad stuff. Stuff you _haven't_ told me. But Fury's sharp, he'll know if you're lying or playing it up for sympathy, so don't bother."

"I don't think anyone's going to buy the sympathy angle. Not after yesterday."

"You can take care of yourself," Clint agreed, "but that doesn't mean you don't deserve help. So, why do you want to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

A practice question, and her reply was still the same as it had been the night before.

She was staying because of Clint, for the kindness he showed her and how if she tried, she could almost understand what he saw in her, the part he was trying to save.

She couldn't tell Fury that. She didn't even feel comfortable saying it again to Clint.

"Not a very compelling answer," he pressed.

She gave him a halfhearted "Shut up, Barton."

He moaned at the response and let his head fall back to rest against the wall, and they sat silently until the doctor stepped into the corridor with a file full of x-rays.

The ankle wasn't broken, only badly sprained, and she almost gave Clint a triumphant told-you-so before she realized she hadn't voiced her thoughts on the matter. She hadn't said much more than necessary all morning, except while they sat in her new quarters and had a quick breakfast, and that was mostly pleasantries.

Clint thanked the doctor and stood and pulled her to her feet, and she chewed her lip as she followed him back down the corridor. This was why he didn't trust her, why she would end up losing him before it was all over. He spent most of their time together dragging her through basic social interactions. He would grow tired of the way she hid behind moods and silence, grow tired of showing her patience and getting nothing in return.

"I told you last night, I'm staying because of you."

She watched from the corner of her eye, but Clint only nodded and kept walking. His non-reaction inspired a little prickle of disappointment she didn't care to examine.

"What's the problem then? If that's the truth, that's what you tell Fury," he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Naive idiot.

Director Fury wouldn't care about her feelings for Clint. He would want to know how she intended to benefit S.H.I.E.L.D., long term, after her intelligence was exhausted.

"It isn't enough."

"Of course it's enough, if that's how you feel about it. Nobody really expects you to give a shit about S.H.I.E.L.D."

They stopped at an elevator bank and Clint pushed the down button, made a pleased noise when the doors opened immediately. He made to step in but she gripped the sleeve of his jacket and held him back.

"Then what's the point of this interrogation?" she demanded.

"This isn't _the_ _glory of Soviet supremacy_. Fury isn't gonna make you pledge allegiance to the flag or whatever's the American equivalent of your mantra-"

A cold dread dropped into her stomach, and a numbing little shock rippled through her and made her breath catch. She crossed her arms tight over her chest and couldn't quite meet Clint's eyes anymore.

"Where did you hear that?" she asked.

"From you," he said softly, a note of hesitant regret coloring the words. "In the cell."

What else was in the parts of the surveillance footage he hadn't shown her? Who else had heard?

"I didn't mean to throw that at you," he added. He took a step closer and rested his hand on her arm, withdrew when she twitched away rather than accept the gesture. "I know it's just what they say in your head. It's not you."

He understood, at least. The rest of them wouldn't.

"It's fine," she said, and tried to sound like she didn't care that he was learning all her secrets. She stepped into the elevator, making an immediate left and standing with her shoulder pressed into the corner next to the long row of numbered buttons. She didn't want to stare out at the city with Clint again and hear more empty promises about sightseeing.

"We're going down to one," Clint said. "You can push it if you want to."

He offered it like a treat, like it was supposed to make her feel better somehow. Odd, but she pressed her finger against the round number one and watched it light up red. When nothing exciting happened she made a halfhearted effort and arched a brow at him.

"You're such a killjoy," he groaned as the elevator dropped. He was joking, he was always joking, but the assessment stung, and she wasn't entirely sure what she'd missed. She didn't like the feeling, the sensation that she'd skipped a step walking down stairs.

"Did I do it wrong?" she challenged.

"No," he said, and rolled his eyes, "but you were supposed to enjoy it. You got to push it and I didn't. It's like calling shotgun, or punching someone when you see a Volkswagen, or...or doing the little buttons on the lids of fast food cups. It's something boring and inconsequential, but you turn it into fun. You've got something like that, right?"

This was Clint trying to make the awkward better, so she cast her mind around for something that lined up with his description. She wouldn't push him away and sulk like she had in the containment cell, no matter how uncomfortable the interaction felt, or how tempting it was to keep quiet and feel sorry for herself instead.

"The shooting range," she said after a moment, although she wasn't certain it was the concept he was going for. "It isn't challenging but it's necessary to practice."

"Okay, so what do you do at the shooting range?"

Intimidation tactics probably weren't his idea of fun, but he had asked, so she drew a breath and steeled herself for his response.

"Stare down the other operatives while I shoot their targets," she admitted. "I like watching their reactions. They always look scared and leave."

Clint's expression shifted into disbelief, then he laughed and rumpled her hair. The gesture was becoming obnoxious and pleasantly familiar all at once, and she found herself warming to it.

"I knew I liked you, Red," he said. The easy approval made her feel better in a way pushing the elevator button hadn't. "Too bad Fury's banned you from the range, huh?"

"You said I could have a shotgun," she replied with feigned disappointment, not entirely sure how to identify the impulse that spurred her to speak, besides a curiousity about how far he would go to compensate for upsetting her.

"I said _call_ shotgun, it means-" He broke off, narrowed his eyes at the hesitant smile she could feel pulling her lips up. "Playing dumb isn't cute, y'know."

"I didn't know about the Volkswagens," she conceded, and shrugged a little. "You should have mentioned it. We were just in Germany, it would have made the ride to the airfield more interesting."

"You don't get to hit me for _every_ Volkswagen," Clint shot back, "just the beetles. And if I see it first you don't get to hit me at all, and I'm Hawkeye, so you'll probably never win."

He gave her a grin, but before she could think of a retort the elevator slid to a smooth stop and the doors opened. The corridor beyond was drastically different from the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. base she'd seen, brightly lit with natural light from tall windows and crowded with foot traffic, people in suits carrying files and agents in tactical gear.

"Atrium's that way," Clint told her, and pointed toward a pair of glass double doors at one end of the hallway, where most of the S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel were coming from. Atrium equaled exit, and she again got the impression that Clint was giving her more information than he was strictly allowed to. "Access to the parking garage, too."

They went the opposite direction, keeping to the edge of the hallway, and none of the other agents gave them more than a passing glance. The doors on this floor were thrown open in invitation. Natalia caught quick glimpses of pool tables and televisions and clusters of sofas and armchairs, wide sunny rooms filled with tables and empty workspaces, and a library of sorts with _Authorized Personnel Only_ stamped on the door.

That piqued her interest, and she nudged Clint's shoulder to draw his attention.

"What's in there?" she asked.

"That?" Clint said dismissively. "People like government agencies to be transparent, right? That's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attempt. Anyone can go in and read declassified mission logs, look at a bunch of made-up files, S.S.R. microfilm from the 40's, whatever. If you're on base, you're authorized. Nothing interesting. Fury likes to lure bureaucrats in there and then he disappears to deal with an emergency, so they get to look around unsupervised and leave feeling good about S.H.I.E.L.D. when they don't dig up anything incriminating."

It wasn't interesting to Clint, maybe, but it was a good indication that Director Fury had off-the-books projects and dealings he'd rather keep hidden. Her interest shifted to the files and documents that had been excluded from the little reference library. The folder Clint had showed her in the safe house, full of her photographs and statistics, was probably among them.

The quiet drone of blended conversations met them around the next corner, and the agents in this corridor stared a little longer than necessary, whispered to their friends as she and Clint passed, one even stopped dead and retreated back the way he'd come.

"So everyone's probably talking about us. Gossip's been crazy the past couple days," Clint said, and she could have guessed as much. She had expected it.

They rounded another corner and faced a set of open double doors, and Natalia froze.

What she hadn't expected was the sheer size of the SHIELD base, or the excessive number of agents, or how they all seemed to be armed.

She recalled the agent on the roof, the one whose finger had tightened convulsively against the trigger of his gun as she stepped off the plane. How many more of them had been unsettled by rumors and fearmongering?

"No," she told Clint, and planted herself firmly in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed and scowling.

"No?" he repeated blankly. "What d'you mean, _no_?"

"I don't care about your coffee. I'm not going in there."

Clint looked quickly into the cafeteria then back at her, brows drawn together, the question written plainly in his expression. She stared coolly back, unmoving.

"Chicken," he accused at last. He couldn't possibly expect that to work.

"Prudent," she countered. "But you can call it whatever you want."

"What, you think we're gonna get jumped?"

"I think you're the only one who cares enough not to shoot me on sight."

Clint shook his head and blew out a sigh.

"That's not true. Coulson-"

"Coulson wanted me put down in the safe house," she reminded him, and he had the grace not to argue the point.

"Just trust me, okay? You're fine as long as you're with me. I've got your back, and this is important."

"Coffee's important?" she asked skeptically, but she could feel her stubborn resolve wavering. Friends were supposed to trust each other, and if she didn't put a little faith in Clint this time, it would be another impediment to him learning to trust her. "Fine," she relented with a grudging little snarl. Barton and his stupid feelings….

"Fine," he parroted back, matching her tone with another dumb grin. "Everything's drama with you, huh?"

Their goal in coming to the cafeteria - the branded Starbucks counter beside the hot line - waited on the opposite side of the room.

She stepped a fraction of an inch closer to Clint, imperceptible to the other agents, but it brought her close enough that the sleeve of his jacket brushed against her arm in a reassuring sort of way. He cut a quick glance in her direction but didn't comment.

The stares followed them along the aisle between tables, conversations stalling in a hushed ripple as they passed. Natalia lifted her chin and fixed her eyes on a point on the far wall, to stop herself fidgeting or giving the assembled agents challenging glares Clint would have to admonish her for later.

She couldn't match Clint's relaxed stance, but made an effort to keep her hands loose at her sides and put on a neutral if not pleasant expression. He began talking at her again, and again she kept pace beside him and made only the necessary acknowledgements as she surveyed the room from her peripheral vision.

Four exits, three leading into corridors and one to a courtyard outside. Row of floor-to-ceiling windows on the courtyard wall. Fire alarms by each exit, adequate distraction if they-

"Natalia," Clint said insistently, real annoyance to his tone now. Both he and the man behind the counter were watching her, the barista with polite interest while Clint's expression leaned more toward furious.

"Just make it two," Clint told the man behind the counter. "Don't give hers the third espresso shot."

He took her arm and dragged her away. The agent behind them waited until they were safely at the other end of the counter before stepping forward to place his order.

"Pull it together," Clint muttered softly. He leaned with one elbow on the counter and ducked his head a little, and she mirrored his position to keep the conversation private. "What're you doing, assigning everyone individual threat levels?"

"No," she shot back sarcastically, only because she hadn't made it past the part where she evaluated the room for escape routes. Threat assessments were next on her list, but Clint didn't need to know that.

"This isn't a field trip, okay? I didn't drag you down here to be nice. Don't look, on your six, guy with the Belgian waffles three tables back. He's personal assistant to Councilman Nielsen. You're here to make an appearance, prove you can behave, and be so fucking boring that guy won't have anything to report.

"We're gonna go sit at Coulson's table and have a conversation. Five minutes. Pretend we're all marks, pretend this is a mission, I don't care, but don't be a jerk and don't zone out again. The Council doesn't know what happened yesterday and we'd like to keep it that way."

 _How?_ was her first thought, followed by _Why would they bother?_ There was surveillance footage, witnesses, there was no way her behavior could be covered up, at least not without a massive effort and a lot of favors.

The barista slid two cups of coffee across the counter.

And Barton, the asshole, had dropped the information in a place she couldn't dare ask for clarification, not when the Council's spy was watching. So much for not lying and not keeping secrets. Her only choice was to play along.

She trailed obediently behind Clint to where Coulson and a woman sat alone at a table, sipped her coffee to hide the scowl she longed to direct at him, sat in the chair he pulled out for her. She watched from the corner of her eye as the Council's man laid a small device on the table beside his tray and slipped an earpiece in.

She had been isolated, insulated, from the Council's scrutiny so far. Clint, Coulson, Garner, their escort of guards off the plane, all of them were loyal to Director Fury. Clint hadn't mentioned playing a part because there hadn't been a part to play. But now-

"How's the foot?" Coulson asked in greeting, and gave her a smile that was a little too forced, too bright, especially considering the terms they'd parted on in the containment cell.

She hitched up a smile of her own, tentative and a little shy, playing overwhelmed at finding herself in a big impressive S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. Easy enough. Wide-eyed and innocent always got the mark.

"Just a sprain," she said, and because she could feel the man watching, she let her accent peek through. It was what they expected, what they wanted, a Soviet defector. "It was kind of you to ask."

Clint relaxed beside her, although he cocked his head just a fraction at the cadence of her words.

Coulson introduced his partner and she resisted the impulse to point out that she recognized the agent from the short exchange she'd overheard in the containment cell. Coulson carried the conversation, peppering them both with inane questions - _How did you sleep_? and _Clint, did you file that report_? - until Agent May shoved her elbow into his ribs.

"We're clear," she said, and Clint immediately slumped low in his seat.

"Finally," he groaned. She privately seconded the sentiment, and let her smile fall away. "Think they're satisfied?"

"Disappointed," May said with a little smirk. She turned to Natalia. "You noticed he was listening."

She shrugged and sipped her coffee. Any idiot trainee would have noticed the man's audio enhancer and behaved accordingly. Probably why he was a personal assistant and not a spy.

"And she's back," Clint muttered, and kicked her under the table. "Don't be an ass. I get to call you out now, remember?"

"I noticed," she confirmed to May, and the woman mirrored her offhanded shrug from a moment before.

"We don't have to be friends," Agent May said. She took out her phone and began tapping the screen. "Barton just asked me to make an effort."

Coulson gave his partner an exasperated look while Clint frowned, and Natalia thought maybe she liked Agent May best out of all of them. For a moment she was afraid Coulson would try to mediate, but he let it drop and turned to Clint instead.

"Did you have breakfast?"

"Cereal and Poptarts," Clint said.

"Was the cereal cookies?" Agent May asked, grinning smugly down at her phone.

"No," Clint scoffed. "Cookie Crisp is disgusting."

"Did the cereal have marshmallows?" Coulson tried next. She got the impression it was a good-natured pastime, riding Clint about his eating habits.

"They weren't real marshmallows," she interjected, because she was in a mood to take a shot at him, after he'd dragged her into the cafeteria.

"Hey, I didn't hear you complaining while you ate 'em straight from the box," Clint said defensively. Coulson gave her an incredulous look and she threw Clint a scowl. Maybe she should add another rule to the friendship, bar Clint from relating anecdotes that painted her as anything but the Black Widow.

"Don't get her hooked on caffeine and processed sugar," Coulson warned him, and shook his head. He passed her his apple and a container of Greek yogurt from May's tray, then dropped a banana in front of Clint.

Clint snorted.

"What, you think she has a refined palate because she's European or whatever? Go on, Nat. Tell him what you told me this morning."

They _definitely_ needed a new friendship rule.

"No," she said, and sampled the Greek yogurt. May gave up her phone in favor of listening to Clint.

"Okay, so we're having breakfast and she goes 'Your Poptarts are _wrong_ , Barton,' and I think she's gonna complain because they're not fresh baked pastries or something, but she follows it up with 'Nobody likes strawberry, the s'mores ones are better'. There's something wrong with her, Phil. Frosted strawberry is a _classic_."

Agent May laughed, or executed what was probably her approximation of a laugh, a short exhale through the nose and a little smirk.

"Good luck," she said. She stood and gave Coulson a pat on the shoulder while he gaped at them across the table. "I didn't sign on for this."

Natalia watched her leave, an uncomfortable, anxious twisting in her gut. She had grown accustomed to being respected, or at least being feared enough that people pretended to respect her. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were weaker than her ex-colleagues, poorly trained and easily intimidated, and she hadn't expected this.

She'd thought Barton was a fluke, his fearless bravado a character flaw that just hadn't managed to get him killed yet. But Coulson was watching her with a weary, resigned expression and Agent May had actually _laughed_ at her. Her reputation didn't seem to be enough here, despite what she had initially feared before entering the cafeteria, and it made her feel vulnerable in a way she didn't like at all.

"Can you keep your mouth shut for five minutes?" she snarled at Clint. He rolled his eyes.

"That's the kind of thing that makes people like you, sweetheart. You have to be Natalia out here just like when we're alone, or this won't work."

"I don't care if your friends like me," she retorted.

"Well make an effort anyway. Like you said, so far I'm the only one who doesn't want you dead. Those are pretty shitty odds, if something goes down."

"Time out," Coulson interjected. "Why are you antagonizing her?"

"I'm not-"

He broke off with a growl and a muttered ' _whatever_ '. Coulson looked between them for a long moment, brows drawn, then made a concentrated effort to direct the conversation to arrows and the R&D department.

It worked, at least on Clint, and Natalia was free to drag the spoon through her yogurt and tune out again. It was true, Clint had shown a little less of the careful kindness she'd come to expect, but she wouldn't go as far as calling him antagonistic.

"You should leave," Coulson said suddenly. His eyes focused on a point behind them. Natalia heard the same rippled hush that had washed over the room for her and Clint. "Don't want to be late for Director Fury."

"Walked right into this one," Clint muttered. He made a show of glancing at his wrist, shook himself after staring blankly at bare skin for a beat. Coulson threw him a questioning expression. "Lost it," Clint shrugged. "Forgot. We'll go up the stairwell and circle back to the elevators on the west side. That oughta shake 'em, if they bother coming after us."

He smiled as he spoke, casual and unhurried as he slid his chair back and stood. Natalia longed to look behind, but hitched up a smile of her own and matched Clint's tone.

"Thank you for breakfast, Agent Coulson," she said sweetly, and Clint gave her an approving little nod. He collected their empty coffee cups and canted his head toward the closest exit, not the obvious safe one that would take them to the opposite side of the room.

Natalia let her eyes sweep over the group of suited Council members and personal assistants and S.H.I.E.L.D. hangers-on as she pushed away from the table and turned to follow Clint. Three men and two women, each with a simpering intern at their heels, led by a young S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with sharp eyes and dark hair twisted into a knot at the base of her skull.

She wanted to have a longer look, but Clint's escape route took them dangerously close to the group. She concentrated instead on maintaining the vapid, pleasantly neutral expression she'd worn for the first part of their conversation with Coulson, while Clint tossed their cups in the trash and pushed the door open for her.

"We had the courtyard renovated last spring…." the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent playing tour guide explained as they passed, with enthusiasm that could only be feigned. The Council members dutifully directed their attention to the opposite side of the cafeteria while she and Clint slipped into the corridor.

She tried to hold her tongue until they were a safe distance away, but only managed one corridor and a left turn before the urge to round on Barton won out.

"When were you going to tell me the real reason we were going to the cafeteria?" she demanded.

"When I had your attention," Clint shot back easily. "It's your fault you walked in there blind. You've been ignoring me all morning."

So he was upset about that.

"What if I didn't play along?"

"You caught on fast enough," he shrugged. "You're the _Black Widow_ , after all."

He rolled his eyes as he said it. She had a weak urge to slug him in the arm for being such a smartass, but mostly she found that she wanted to go back to her quarters and be left alone. He led her down the corridor and up a stairwell, and by the time they emerged upstairs a new realization had settled in the back of her mind.

"You wish you hadn't brought me in," she said softly.

"That's not it, but if you aren't going to try, why should I bother?"

She was trying very hard to win him over, but he probably wouldn't recognize it in her single attempt at honesty and the decision to follow him into the cafeteria, so she kept her mouth shut. They caught another elevator, and this time he didn't offer to let her press the button. He didn't look at her at all, choosing instead to watch the digital display over the door count up the number of floors.

"I can't hold it together by myself anymore, okay? We need people on our side, and it isn't going to be as easy as I thought." He turned to her, and when he spoke again the words were tinged with frustration. "I need you to _try_ , Natalia."

She chewed her lip and considered him, his overbright eyes and the desperation behind them, his pleading expression, the exhaustion written plainly in the lines of his face.

"They've been interrogating you, when you're not with me," she guessed. He shrugged one shoulder, went back to watching the floors count up.

"Yeah," he mumbled, grudging agreement.

She recalled his uncharacteristic frustration and impatience, the three shots of espresso in his coffee.

"They took you last night. That's why you're strange today, they didn't let you sleep."

He didn't confirm or deny, just blew a sharp breath through his nose and frowned and muttered 'I'm not _strange_ ' under his breath.

If they were still interrogating him, her behavior hadn't been covered up as thoroughly as he'd led her to believe. They were waiting for him to slip up, waiting for _her_ to slip up, and there was a very high probability of it happening if he didn't start filling her in on situations like the cafeteria. She felt sorry that he was enduring repeat interrogations for her, but she couldn't make the sympathy extend very far. She hadn't asked him to keep up a happy front and shield her from the truth. Wasn't he supposed to do the opposite? Wasn't he supposed to trust her?

Clint claimed they were friends, and he had imposed the rules, but she still wasn't sure it was her card to play. She gave it a shot anyway.

"What happened to not keeping secrets?" she asked. "Or does that only apply to me?"

"You really need to find a way to connect with Fury," Clint said evenly, as if he hadn't heard her.

Annoyance and anger flickered in her chest, tempered by disappointment, and she felt a little sorry for herself now. Exactly why she didn't work with partners.

The elevator opened onto another grey corridor, but Clint didn't move.

"Second on the right," he said. "He knows you're coming."

"You're not-" she began, then forced herself into silence, ignoring the way her stomach dropped at the prospect of meeting Fury alone. Barton was a weakness. She didn't need him.

Even though it would have been nice to have him, as Garner had mentioned he could sit in on her interview with Director Fury if it would make her feel better. Their friendship didn't seem to be _that_ kind of friendship however, more a mutually beneficial acquaintance, she understood that now.

She put on an old mask, neutral and blank, quiet confidence and lethal determination. She squared her shoulders and stepped from the elevator, long quick strides that usually had the other operatives veering out of her path.

She didn't look back as she reached the second door on the right, or as she pounded her clenched fist against the metal hard enough to bruise. She didn't falter when the door swept open and a giant of a man with an eye patch and what appeared to be a permanent scowl stared down at her. She met his eye and stared haughtily back, again ignoring the uncomfortable swoop of nerves in her stomach, and didn't follow his gaze when he leaned around the edge of the door to peer back down the corridor.

She could feel the archer's eyes on her, but didn't look back, not when Director Fury gripped her shoulder with one scarred hand and pulled her into his office, not even when she heard the archer's voice echoing down the corridor after her.

_Wait a minute, Red!_

The archer was a weakness, and she didn't need him.


	11. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't say it enough, and I know I'm terrible at replying to reviews, but THANK YOU to everyone who takes the time to leave a comment or kudos!!! When I get stuck it helps to go back and read all the nice things you guys have said as a reminder that I do not, in fact, suck. :3

Fury's office was a complete inverse of what she had expected, all bright windows and soft leather furniture. It was almost inviting. The man himself, however….

Director Fury pinned her with a shrewd, calculating expression, then strode across the room to lean against his desk, arms crossed and scowling. It was going to be one of _those_ meetings, then.

Natalia drew a deep, fortifying breath and crossed the room with measured steps to stand before Director Fury. Maybe if Barton had come, the interview would have been just that. He was a decent mediator, and Coulson at least seemed inclined to hear his reasons for defying orders. Maybe Fury would have listened, too. Maybe it wouldn't have turned into an interrogation.

"Why are you in my office?"

She cut her eyes back to the door for an instant, confusion drawing her brows together. Had Barton sent her to Director Fury unannounced? A prank? A gesture meant to be interpreted as a big _fuck you_?

"You're supposed to be dead," Fury continued. Rhetorical, then. He prowled a slow circle around her, and she stared ahead at the glass wall that made one side of the office. "I sent my best sniper to take you out, and I can count on one hand the number of missions he's failed in the past twelve years. Why are you in my office, Agent Romanova?"

He hadn't hit her yet. Promising. Maybe she could win him over, after all.

"It's just Nat-"

"Don't give me that ' _just Natalia_ ' bullshit. You're a trained KGB operative. You're the Black Widow. If you're going to waste my time trying to earn sympathy, you can haul your ass back outside and play that game with Barton."

Well, he'd warned her it wouldn't work. Maybe being direct?

"I want to work for S.H.I.E.L.D." she tried, and Fury scoffed.

"What makes you think I want you?" he shot back.

She stared for a beat, convinced she'd heard him wrong. She hadn't considered S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't want her. Everyone wanted her. There was a car chase and a very destroyed airfield to prove it.

"I'm the Black Widow," she retorted, and immediately regretted it. Too far. She wondered briefly if he went for hands-on punishments, like her handlers, or if he'd simply shove her back in the containment cell.

"Black Widow my ass," Fury muttered, and scowled at her. "That doesn't mean shit to me. I've interrogated four other Red Room girls just like you, you aren't special. Sit."

He stepped around her and took a seat in a leather chair, motioning for her to take the sofa across from him. This was the point when meetings went to shit, when her superiors became too accommodating, when the discussion would take longer than a handful of questions or a quick round of barked orders. An invitation to get comfortable was her signal to start apologizing for any incompetence, real or imagined by her handlers, accept whatever punishment was due, and move on. She had long ago stopped playing their games, allowing them to lure her into a false sense of security with kindness before shattering the illusion.

But _make a connection_ , Barton had said. That probably didn't include jumping to conclusions about Director Fury's intentions, no matter how sure she felt that a real interrogation was coming. She complied, sat where Director Fury had pointed her, but didn't relax.

"You wanna know your problem? They've spent your whole life telling you that you're the best, you're the most prized asset in all of Russia. They've inflated your ego so much you can't see the truth. It isn't Natalia who's special. You have these skills and you can't utilize their full potential unless you're being controlled.

"The Black Widow is a weapon, not a person. They don't want Natalia. They haul you back to that compound because they don't want Natalia. She's a liability in the field, she second-guesses orders and steps outside mission parameters. If they don't want Natalia, why should I?"

That wasn't making a connection.

"Because-" she began, then fell silent. Spouting the first thing that came to mind, being defensive, wouldn't get her anywhere. She was better than that. Director Fury could be won over like any other mark.

Fury crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, waiting for her to continue.

"You want me _because_ I'm a liability," she said slowly, feeling out the argument. "You want agents who don't subscribe to the mission parameters, agents who defy orders if the orders are wrong."

Director Fury wasn't the enigma Barton had made him out to be. She felt childish and stupid for ever having worried about the meeting. It wasn't an interrogation at all, not like she was accustomed to.

"You let Barton live on the S.T.R.I.K.E. floor without forcing him to join a team," she continued, warming to the theme. "He said you know he works better alone. You allow it because you don't want blind obedience like the Council. The Council wants the Black Widow, but you want Natalia."

"Arrogant little shit," Fury assessed, but he gave her a slow smile. "Now, why are you in my office?"

Barton was right. Fury didn't want the obvious answer, that she wanted to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. She had to give him something more, the truths that were best left buried in the back of her mind, the ideas that taunted her with their futility.

"I don't want to be what they made me," she told him, dragging the words reluctantly from that guarded place in her heart that so far she'd only shared with Barton. The effort hadn't gotten her very far, but maybe it would be more effective here. "It's all I'm good for, I know that, but…. It would be different, if I could choose."

She willed away the vulnerable feeling that made her want to squirm under Fury's appraising study, made sure her breathing was even and controlled.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s the lesser of two evils," Fury said, and she knew he'd been discussing her with Coulson. Probably with Barton, too.

"Better than what I left behind."

"If you stay, you won't be working for S.H.I.E.L.D. You'll work for _me_. Yeah, we'll set you up with a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge and a retirement fund, but when this agency falls apart - and organizations like this _always_ burn - I want people loyal to the ideals S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to represent to help me start over. Think you can live with that?"

Still better than what she'd left behind, but there was no reason to let Director Fury know she was so easily won over.

"Depends," she said coolly. "What does the real S.H.I.E.L.D. represent?"

"This is what S.H.I.E.L.D. is supposed to be," he said, and gestured between them. "Second chances, protecting people who need it, finding the good in the darkness and drawing it out. The intelligence we gain in the process isn't supposed to be the endgame."

"What about the Council? That seems counter to their intentions."

"You don't know shit about the Council," Fury said, irritation creeping into the words. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"I know they want me dead."

"Wanted. They _wanted_ you dead. They've reconciled to the idea that you've switched allegiances."

"Meaning what?" she asked cautiously, not entirely sure she wanted the answer.

"You said it; the Council wants the Black Widow. They won't sign off on your little fantasy where we break your programming."

He'd been talking to Garner, too, but that wasn't surprising. Garner had never made a formal promise of confidentiality. She wasn't surprised, but she didn't like Fury knowing, just one more thing he could use against her.

"Oh, they'll order you down to Medical and call in doctors," Fury continued, "but it won't be to lift the Red Room's control. They'll twist what your people did, build on it, until Natalia's gone. They want a weapon, not Natalia."

She should have guessed as much. Why put her down, after Barton went to all the trouble to bring her in, when they could use her instead?

Fury stood and went to his desk, hefted a pile of papers and files into his arms.

"This," he said, and dropped the stack of paperwork on the table in front of her for emphasis," is what it takes to keep the Council off our tail, to cover up all the bullshit you and Barton pulled. Why did my personal jet leave the country in the middle of the night without filing a flight plan? Why did the security camera in your cell malfunction and loop the surveillance footage? Why didn't we haul Barton's ass in for treason two weeks ago? Who sanctioned Barton to make a recruitment offer? Bullshit. Hours of bullshit."

He stepped around the group of chairs and strode to the window, back again, restless pacing borne of the frustration evident behind the words.

" _Barton made breakfast_ , Coulson says, _she's wearing his clothes_ , and here I am convinced all we have is a case of Barton thinking with his dick instead of his brain. Then you're punching my agents and blowing up cars and airfields and safe houses, and next thing I know it's two in the morning and I'm trying to figure out some bullshit excuse to call in Andrew for a consult before you slaughter everyone on my base. So, Agent Romanova, I need to know if you're worth it."

Probably not, but it seemed stupid to tell Fury that. It would take months to earn security clearance, complete whatever training they deemed necessary, find an infallible way to overcome the possibility of her programming getting the best of her. There were others with her skill sets.

"Why would you bother to go to all that trouble if I weren't?" she said in reply.

"I trust my agents," he said simply. "You've got Coulson vouching for you, Barton, even Carter, and I can't figure out what you did to get on her good side."

"Punched Barton in the face," she guessed, and recalled the short interaction with Agent Carter in the elevator. Fury took his chair again, leaned forward with forearms resting on knees.

"Carter was the one monitoring the surveillance camera in your cell. When you snapped, she pulled the live feed without authorization and looped footage of you sleeping until we could deal with you."

That was interesting, and a little disconcerting, but she kept her expression pleasantly neutral. Fury was obviously fishing for clarification on Agent Carter's motive. Let him think she and Carter had somehow become allies. The tiny kernel of suspicion she detected in Fury's tone was probably inconsequential, but it felt like a significant advantage just now.

"We didn't blow up your safe house," she said. Fury scowled again at the deflection.

"No, _I_ blew up my safe house. That's what happens when assets outlive their usefulness. They get decommissioned."

Threats, this was more her speed.

"So if I won't cooperate with you, or if I decide to align my interests with the Council, you'll have me killed."

"I'm glad we understand each other."

"That isn't much of a choice, S.H.I.E.L.D. or death."

"Did I say this was a formal offer of recruitment?" Fury asked, with a humorless little laugh. He pushed himself out of his chair. "You know what they say about assumptions, Agent Romanova."

She didn't know - it was probably some insignificant American saying - but from the context she gathered that Fury was calling her an idiot. She felt the first faint stirrings of alarm. She'd said something wrong, or hadn't said enough, and Fury was done with her.

He reached for her and she flinched away, an urge she couldn't quite reign in. He only gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet, steering her toward the door.

"I'm not making the call yet. Barton was wrong to promise anything more than relocation and protection. You convince me that I can trust you, that I'm not wasting time and resources on this, then we'll talk recruitment."

She'd failed the assessment then, undeniably.

What would happen if she didn't manage to make herself useful? If Fury still wasn't satisfied when he'd exhausted her intelligence? She had a brief swell of panic and the two damning words echoed in her mind, _relocation_ and _protection_. S.H.I.E.L.D. would supply her with an alias weaker than any she could create for herself and drop her in some American city for the KGB to track down.

She forced her thoughts into stillness and took a moment to evaluate. Something about Fury's words seemed obligatory, as if he was required to withhold extending a formal offer until she gave him something concrete to base her recruitment on, instead of Barton's impulsive behavior.

Impulsive….

"You knew what Barton was like before you assigned him my kill order."

She spoke without thinking, voicing the idea as it settled in the back of her mind. She wasn't entirely sure where the suspicion would lead her, what conclusion she could draw from it.

"Are you implying I wanted this meeting to happen?" Fury asked coolly. His face was impassive, but there was a gleam behind his eye that probably would have unsettled a less experienced agent.

Natalia only felt the first faint stirring of adrenaline in her chest. She was in deep already, defying the Council and siding with Director Fury, but found it exhilarating rather than terrifying. It was familiar and oddly comforting to become immersed in something close to espionage. It was all she knew, all she'd been trained for. It was better than sitting idle in containment cells and living quarters. She was a pawn once again, but a player too this time.

 _Carefully_ , she reminded herself. Always carefully, especially with important men in powerful positions.

A man like Director Fury always had plans and ulterior motives and dangerous ideas. Maybe he had selected Barton for her kill order on a whim, for entertainment. Maybe he'd been banking on Barton's altruism as the first step in a larger, more complicated bid for control.

Either way, he was willing to at least consider spending the time and resources to fix her programming. She liked the idea of being just Natalia again. She liked the thought of running the KGB into the ground even more.

"I'm not implying anything," she replied, matching his tone. Then, as an afterthought, " _Sir_."

Fury gave her another one of those slow, calculating smiles as he opened the office door. She might like S.H.I.E.L.D. after all.

It was Garner waiting in the hallway to collect her. He leaned against the wall opposite Fury's office, studying a tablet, which he locked and tucked under his arm as they stepped into the corridor.

"How'd it go?" he asked, directing the question at her rather than Fury and giving her a smile too friendly to be genuine.

She deferred with an impassive expression and a tiny shrug, staring to the end of the corridor rather than look at Garner. Truthfully, she wasn't sure how it had gone, aside from Fury not walloping her.

"She can go back to her quarters," Fury said. "Agent Hill and I are tied up the rest of the afternoon. We'll start the formal interviews tomorrow."

Garner rolled his eyes a little at the two non-answers.

"Nick?" he said, and held up an iPod wrapped in white headphones and charger cables. Fury frowned.

"Can she use it for anything other than its intended purpose?"

"It's Barton's," Garner replied with a little chuckle. "This thing's been on so many missions, it barely even plays music. You don't give her something to do, it's no better than leaving her in Containment," he added, when Fury stood impassive.

"Fine," Fury agreed, and retreated into his office.

"I don't want it," Natalia said coolly. She moved down the corridor toward the elevator, leaving Garner to follow. She pushed the down button, impatient, annoyance kindling in her chest when the doors didn't immediately open.

"I heard how Clint threw you to the wolves with Fury."

She could always continue ignoring him, but she got the impression that, like Barton, Garner enjoyed filling silences.

"It wasn't my first interrogation. I didn't need him," she said, and hoped that would be enough to satisfy his need for communication. It wasn't.

"He thought it might have hurt your feelings," Garner pressed.

"Hurt feelings is a juvenile concept. I misinterpreted the parameters of our relationship, he corrected my assumption."

"That's mission talk," Garner admonished, and God, he was insufferable.

"Maybe because I'm working a mission," she retorted.

"I guess that's a safer way to look at things. People can't disappoint you, if you shut down interpersonal relationships before they have a chance to develop."

"I don't care about Barton," she said, the words easy and neutral even though she meant it as a screaming denial. "He's a means to an end."

"Now you're talking out of your ass," Garner said. She turned to face him, surprised by the unprofessional language. "What end?"

"I'm here to bring down S.H.I.E.L.D."

It was a lie and they both knew it. She'd had opportunities to escape containment, slip her tracker into an unsuspecting agent's pocket, take out Fury. Garner chose to let it go unremarked.

"Or maybe you're scared you've lost the only person who's really on your side here."

The elevator arrived and she was spared coming up with a response to that. She felt her resentment grow another degree, he could read her so easily. After Barton this morning, after blowing it with Director Fury, the last thing she wanted was a psych analysis.

She waited until the elevator doors slid shut, until the floors were counting down at a steady rate, then slammed her palm flat against the emergency stop.

"Have you been trained in combat, Doctor Garner?" she asked, a silky purr that belied sinister intentions. She dropped into a sparring stance. Garner arched a brow.

"Threats? That's how you're going to deflect? Elevator homicide's a little plebeian for the Black Widow, don't you think?"

And he reached over and gave the emergency stop another push, so the elevator lurched back into motion.

She did it without thinking, lifted her hand and gave Garner the middle finger and told him to go fuck himself in Russian, too late to clamp down the burst of indignant fire in her chest.

"You're still wearing the tracker," he observed, but his attempts at putting on a straight face fell flat. She caught the way his lips twitched at the corners as he hid a smile, and saw the amusement shining behind his eyes. That feeling was back, the panicked swoop in her gut that reminded her of misstepping while walking down stairs.

None of them took her seriously, even after seeing what she'd done to Barton in the containment cell. Why should they? They had a surefire way to bring her down with the sedative in the tracking bracelet. How was she supposed to keep herself safe, if they weren't afraid of her?

"I told Director Fury," she lied, a sloppy grab for power. Garner let himself smirk this time.

"I don't care which arm you wear the tracker on," he said. _Fuck._ "Neither does Nick. You needed to feel in control last night, so I gave you that. You needed time to level out. Today you need to take a realistic look at your situation and decide where you want this to go. It's a good place to stop running."

The doors opened and she was again granted an opportunity to escape conversation. She moved down the corridor, counting rooms to be sure she chose the correct one, and began punching the code into the keypad while Garner caught up.

"I want you to think about giving Clint another chance," he said, and offered the iPod again.

"I never make the same mistake twice," she sneered. She almost retreated into her room, but reconsidered at the last moment. The iPod could be useful. There was an exploit somewhere, if Fury was worried about her having it. She snatched it from Garner's grasp and slammed the door in his face.

Her acceptance of the peace offering would no doubt get back to Barton, and that rankled a bit, but the news would also reach Director Fury. He was already suspicious of her interactions with Carter, and a second source of unease would compound and give her some slight leverage. Small victories, and all that.

"Thank you, Natalia," Garner called through the door, the words tinged with bemusement. She listened until she heard him moving down the hallway. She took a moment to breathe, reign in the fluttery, anxious energy left over from the encounter.

The better part of a day lay before her, empty and unscheduled. She'd never cared for downtime, on the rare occasion she found any; idleness led to reprimands at the Red Room compound and she'd grown accustomed to constant activity, either mental or physical, training or reviewing mission dossiers, hunting marks, strategizing. Running.

She didn't want to do as Garner had suggested and consider what S.H.I.E.L.D. could be. She didn't want to sit and try to analyze where she'd gone wrong with Director Fury. She didn't want to think about Barton, or all the little kindnesses he'd shown her, or how that was probably all an act.

S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't as brutal as she had initially imagined. She didn't need him. She didn't need the backup and she didn't need his protection.

The problem was that everything that stood out in her quarters reminded her of him, because he was the only one who had bothered to make her feel welcome. She didn't want to think about Barton.

Natalia gathered his things with practiced efficiency - the iPod, the book and postcard, the blanket on the back of the sofa, the comforter she'd dragged from the bed, the pullover - and took them to the bedroom. She dumped the blankets and hoodie on the floor in the closet and shut the door, then shoved everything else into the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

She hadn't secured the apartment the night before, so that was her next distraction, a methodical task that required her full attention. No bugs or extra listening devices, it turned out, only the security cameras. No additional makeshift weapons, either. She noted the panel on the wall near the door, access to the inner workings of the keypad in the hallway, should she ever decide to disable it and barricade herself in. The only real thing of interest she discovered was a metal grate in the ceiling of the closet.

She climbed the shelving units, less gracefully than usual, and examined the screws that held it in place. It was tempting to see where the vent led - if Fury had anyone monitoring the cameras, they'd probably just assume she was in the closet to play dress up with the new clothes S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided - but she couldn't really summon the motivation to act. She settled for wedging one of the heavy armchairs from the living room against the closet door, in case Fury or the Council decided she needed to be taken care of in the middle of the night.

There was still half a pizza in the fridge. She ate it cold, standing at the kitchen counter, and searched for something to occupy the afternoon.

Recon and intelligence-gathering made good fallbacks, so she found the little remote control Barton had showed her the day before and brought the back wall of the apartment up.

Sunlight brightened the room but did nothing to warm it, too much cold seeping through the big pane of reinforced glass. Her vantage point gave her a view of a long bridge stretching across the Potomac, with a guard building posted at the far end to keep civilian cars out. Good enough.

She settled on the floor to watch, looking for patterns, identifiable cars, shift changes, anything to catalog and keep herself distracted. She retrieved Barton's iPod, but only to check the time and note when anything significant happened.

The only thing she learned was that agents coming onto the base had to present identification, while any cars leaving were waved immediately through the barrier. The guards were replaced at four o'clock exactly, followed by a crush of cars stacking up on the bridge, waiting to spill back into Washington.

The room grew dim quickly after that, and she realized with a start that nobody had come for her all afternoon. Not that she expected social calls, but she'd thought that maybe Coulson or Garner, even Barton….

But that was stupid. They could check in on the security cameras.

_...lost the only person who's really on your side here…._

If this was S.H.I.E.L.D. without Barton, dark and silent and cold, maybe she wasn't ready to stop running.


	12. Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe still a little rough, but I made my Friday update, dammit. :D

Natalia was crouched behind the sofa, broken scissors clutched tight in her fist, before she registered what had woken her. She held her breath and listened, waiting for a shadow to shift, or the quiet shush of shoe against carpet, but nobody was in her room. The sound came again, a soft knocking from the corridor outside.

She groaned her displeasure and sat leaning against the sofa for a moment to come down. She'd never get back to sleep now, not with the spike of adrenaline pounding through her chest.

She searched the mess of blankets on the floor until she found Barton's iPod. 5:30, and the knocking came again, a bit more insistently.

It was Barton. It had to be, because who else would choose to tolerate her company this early, before their breakfast and coffee? She could always ignore him, pretend she hadn't heard, but he knew she slept on the couch rather than in the bed, and he knew she was suspicious of her new quarters, and he probably knew the knocking would startle her.

Yesterday's stinging sense of deception endured, but even if all they did was throw insults at each other, it would still be preferable to the silent eighteen hours that had passed since Garner dumped her back in her quarters.

She rearranged the blankets and pillows on the sofa, an effortless jumble that _didn't_ look as if she'd thrown herself to her feet in a fit of nerves. She did her hair up in a messy ponytail, lost the pullover, kicked the iPod under the couch, and shoved the scissors back into their hiding place.

Sure enough, when she opened the door Barton stood in the hallway, bundled in a coat and gloves, a thermos and two mugs tucked against his chest and a scarf held in his free hand.

"Agent Barton," she said coolly, and watched his shoulders slump a little. That felt good, in a vicious, brutal sort of way.

"You've got one of those girly button coats in the closet," he told her. "Want to show you something."

It didn't look or sound like an official S.H.I.E.L.D. request for her presence, and for a brief instant she considered telling him to fuck off. The little spark of hopeful light behind his eyes would go dark, and his expression would shift to something like disappointment, and she wouldn't have to feel any of the unpleasant emotions she'd been ignoring the past few hours. Barton, the way he made her feel things, he was one giant liability. She was too attached already. Why had she opened the door?

She left him standing in the hall and went to retrieve the coat from the bedroom.

_Weakness, weakness, weakness._

She changed into sweats and put on shoes and the coat. She absolutely _wasn't_ interested in whatever he wanted to show her. He would try to win her over again but she wouldn't fall for it this time. There was nothing to stop him from pulling another trick like he had upstairs, abandoning her with no warning.

"Peacoat," she said scathingly, pushing past him into the corridor, and Barton gave her a tentative little grin. He passed her the scarf and a pair of fleece-lined gloves, and led the way to the elevator. She wondered briefly where they were going despite herself, but was careful to put on a mask of impatient indifference. Maybe it would be impressive, some grand gesture of apology, and she could reject it and give him the same off-putting sense of betrayal she'd had in Director Fury's hallway.

They ended up on the roof, standing in the hazy purple light that preceded dawn. Natalia flipped up the collar of her coat against the cold.

"This way," Barton said, and led the way along the roof and around a corner. There was a little drop, a lower level, negated by a stack of wooden pallets arranged as stairs. Barton stepped down and offered his hand, muttered ' _Careful_ ' and nodded at her ankle.

She jumped down without taking his makeshift steps, curling her lips into a sneer to hide her wince. Barton rolled his eyes and started walking again. They crossed the new section of roof in silence; Natalia trailed a step behind, unwilling to give him an easy opportunity for conversation.

He took her around another corner into a protected alcove, enclosed on two sides by thick concrete walls and on the third by a tall metal air duct. Barton kicked a pair of plastic crates into position and dropped down to sit on one, began to unscrew the lid of the thermos.

"Too early for coffee," she said, and sat on the edge of the second crate. The view would be nice, once the sun was up. She could make out the shape of the Washington Monument in the distance, a black shadow against navy sky.

"It's not coffee, it's hot chocolate."

"I hate hot chocolate," she lied, even though the below-freezing temperatures had penetrated her coat and their breath rose in little clouds. She shivered, imagined pulling her gloves off and wrapping her fingers around one of the mugs Barton had brought. "Why are we out here?"

"Thought you could use a break," Barton mumbled. He put the lid back on the thermos and set it and the empty mugs on the ground beside his feet. "Stuck on base, everyone telling you what to do and when to do it...it gets hard to breathe. This sort of resets everything. Things don't seem so shitty up here."

It was obviously Barton's spot, with a handful of arrows discarded in the corner, a couple empty beer bottles lined up on the skinny ledge, a little toy gun armed with suction-cup darts and a bullseye inked on the wall in black spray paint.

"I don't like the cold," Natalia said, a truth this time, a weak rebuff of what he was attempting to share; she lacked the venom for the scathing rejection she had originally imagined.

Why would he bring her here, forever ruin the sanctity and solitude? It wasn't what she had expected.

She stood and walked back the way they'd come, scowled and stomped and put on an approximation of how she had expected to feel, paused when she reached the shipping pallets. Would Barton let her storm off without an escort?

"I brought you up here to apologize," he called after her. " _Really_ apologize, just us, without S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Council and the security cameras."

She looked back to find him standing at the corner, hands jammed in his pockets.

"I don't need an apology," she snarled, and turned her back on him. There was something genuine about the effort, something raw and unnerving in the straightforward way Barton offered up his secret retreat as an olive branch. The sincerity dissolved some of the anger she'd been maintaining as a guard, a safeguard against falling back into her new habit of trusting him. It left her wary and a little disoriented.

She stopped again just inside the stairwell, not really ready to give up Barton's company, but unwilling to listen to his apology and acknowledge how badly he'd hurt her feelings. That was leverage he didn't need.

If he came after her, she could save face, play it off, taunt him for chasing her. She wouldn't have to admit how strange the past few hours had felt, empty of his attempts to win her over.

He didn't come. She sat on the top step to wait, her shivers slowly subsiding into anxious fidgeting.

Was there another way off the roof? That was probably it. He'd gone back to his room, assuming she'd done the same, and they'd both be in trouble if anyone caught her wandering through corridors unsupervised. She would check, just to be sure he'd really gone, then sneak back down to her quarters.

She eased the stairwell door open and peeked out, but no Barton. Not that she expected him. She hadn't given him any reason to hang around waiting for her mood to improve. She navigated the pallet stairs and moved silently back to the hidden alcove.

Barton was waiting, but that wasn't what made her breath catch and her pulse jump. He was balanced on the tiny ledge, up on the balls of his feet, hands still stuck in his pockets. He bounced a little, leaned back, leaned forward. The motion spurred her around the corner.

"Don't," she said, voice cracking, one arm stretched out to grab his sleeve.

"Don't what?" he asked. He spun to face her, still balancing almost on tiptoe, a fluid graceful motion that seemed out of place on him.

 _Jump_ echoed through her head and she felt stupid. _Don't let me stop you_ came next, a savage thought borne of insecurity, because she shouldn't care if he jumped or not.

"You shouldn't stand up there," she told him instead. She sat on her crate again.

"I won't fall," Barton said, and turned his back on her with another elegant spin. "Where've you been?"

"Stairwell," she muttered. Barton went still, then hung his head and sighed.

"I didn't deserve that," he said softly. "I was such a dick yesterday. You should've gone downstairs and let someone catch you without a guard."

"Then I'd be in trouble, too," she retorted.

"Nah." He jumped lightly from the ledge and dropped down to sit on the second crate. "You'd be confined to quarters, but that'd be it for Hawkeye. One more fuck up and I'm done."

He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, the spot where the sky was gradually fading from deep purple to bright grey.

True, she was angry with him for making her face Director Fury alone, and hurt, but it had never crossed her mind to purposefully earn him a reprimand. She didn't like this Barton, downcast, his easy demeanor reduced to a strained attempt at normalcy.

"Is that still warm?" she asked, an awkward, hesitant lilt to the words as she indicated the thermos sitting between the crates. God, she was shit at making people feel better. She'd never had any practice. Barton shrugged.

"I broke your rule," she tried, and he gave her a sideways glance, brows furrowed in question. "I lied earlier. I like hot chocolate."

"Fuck the rules," he mumbled, a despondent tone she'd never heard him use before. He got to his feet and went to stand near the ledge again, shoulders hunched, avoiding her gaze. "What kind of asshole makes friendship rules? Trust doesn't count if someone orders you to trust them."

"It didn't feel like an order," she told him truthfully, then amended, "until yesterday."

Barton winced at that, stuck his hands back in his pockets and drew in on himself, shuffled and kicked the toe of his shoe against the ground. The insecurity should have seemed out of place on him, but he wore it convincingly.

"I thought I was giving you a choice but I'm no better than they are - the KGB, the Red Room, the sick fucks who made you. Join S.H.I.E.L.D. or I'll kill you, that's some choice. What were you supposed to say to that? Of course you came back with me. Of course you did whatever I told you.

"I've dropped you in the middle of this bullshit bureaucratic drama between Fury and the Council and I'm pissed because you're not trying hard enough. I don't even know what I meant yesterday, _I need you to try_. We haven't talked about how to spin your interviews, I haven't given you a single reason to trust anyone on this base, not even me. I abandoned you to Fury. I drugged you and kidnapped you and expected you to be _grateful_ for it."

He spat the last words, disgust coloring his tone. Hearing him acknowledge his behavior made it hurt less, and it puzzled her. She had planned to feel betrayed and righteously angry for the next week at least, if not forever. Barton did dangerous things to the walls she'd spent years reinforcing.

"Dramatic," she accused. She couldn't bring herself to reciprocate and talk about feelings, tell him how daunting it was to think of losing him. Always better to deflect. Barton whirled to face her again, eyes blazing with disbelief. She stared him down. "You are," she added, unrepentant.

"I wanted to be different," he said, and threw himself down to sit with his back against the ledge. "I wanted to show you-" he broke off and shook his head, "-nevermind. I'm sorry for yesterday, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed quietly, and found herself just as surprised as Barton probably felt at the easy acquiescence, if his gaping was any indication.

She sat beside him on the roof, close enough that their sleeves brushed. It was turning into a _thing_ , a habit, to fight and snark and then sit and let the quiet fix whatever they'd broken. Maybe it would work this time, too.

She found that she didn't need to reject his apology, she didn't have to act on the impulse to absolutely eviscerate him out of spite. It was only a disagreement, and if Barton could give her a pass on almost two decades worth of unrestrained carnage, she could excuse him being a little mean. Just this once. On a trial basis.

Sure enough, the silence became comfortable, familiar and soft. Her ass was numb, along with her fingers and toes, by the time they settled back into tentative companionship, but Barton eventually relaxed and slid a little closer, his shoulder warm against hers, and when she considered it, she didn't really want to scoot away.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out like this, y'know?" Barton said, still with a slight apologetic edge to his tone. "I expected a reprimand, and I knew you'd have to do time in Containment, but the Council…. I didn't think they'd actually come here and get involved personally. I didn't know you were that important."

"I'm not important," she said softly, the new concept Director Fury had so harshly forced her to acknowledge, a contradiction to the lies she'd been fed by her handlers. "I have the same skill sets as the other girls."

Barton had meant to say _I didn't know the Black Widow was that important,_ and she only held the title because of a fluke, because she could fight the programming, because she retained some twisted sense of morality that told her when to reassess her approach to a mission, because sometimes the best way to win wasn't always the most efficient way. The Red Room, the KGB, they'd never figured out what made her special, what made her _more_ , only that she was.

"I don't want another apology," she said, another quick deflection before Barton could press her to elaborate. He sighed beside her. "I don't need to hear you say the words. I want you to be honest about what's going on here. How long have the Council been interrogating you?"

For a moment she thought he might deflect right back, but he surprised her.

"Yesterday was the first real one. Before that it was informal interviews, threats of suspension, nothing unexpected. We covered up what happened in Containment, but they suspect something. They don't like it when Fury hides things. He does this a lot."

"Does it always escalate into midnight interrogations?"

"No," Barton said slowly, and studied her with a little frown.

"Director Fury said they want the Black Widow," she told him, a grudging edge to the words, an explanation as to why they were riding him so hard. She owed him that much, probably owed him an apology of her own.

"They wanted you dead."

"Not anymore, since I've agreed to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. Now they want to finish what the Red Room started."

"Find a way to break you, until there's only the Widow left. Nat-"

He reached for her, a soft gesture. She leaned away and stood, staring down at him, exhausted and disgusted and thoroughly tired at last of feelings and emotions. Accepting any sort of comfort would only solidify the little flickers of fear she felt each time she remembered what Fury had told her about the Council's intentions.

She needed something stronger than fear, stronger than the doubts she felt each time she realized how very foreign S.H.I.E.L.D. was.

"Show me," she ordered.

"Nat," he muttered again, and shook his head. "You're not going to blame yourself for this."

"Show me what they did to you," she repeated, "or I'll find out for myself."

She took two quick steps forward, gripped the front of his coat with one hand. Barton brushed her away and pushed himself up, scowling. He stripped his gloves and scarf, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it at one of the crates.

"The bruises are all you," he said, and pulled the shirt over his head. He turned his back on her, focusing stoically on the sunrise.

She watched goosebumps dance across his skin and felt her fear extinguish, replaced with something much more potent, something she could harness.

"How?" she asked, and maybe she could have sounded a bit more sympathetic, but she could feel herself slipping into that detached, calculating mindset that preceded a mission.

"Taser baton," Barton said. "Like a cattle prod?"

The fury kindling in her chest wavered for a moment, but she used the memories to build it back up. She knew how it hurt, the feeling of fire searing through every nerve, the metallic taste of blood after the convulsions made her bite her tongue.

She studied the pattern of burns, ran her eyes across his lower back and around his left side, counting the number of times they'd shocked him. Some of the injuries overlapped the black and purple bruising she'd inflicted over the past week. No wonder he'd been off yesterday. An unfamiliar impulse twitched in her fingers, clenched in her chest, and she wanted to touch him.

Barton tugged his shirt back on. The soft flash of sympathy coiled in her gut and became lost in warm, calculated rage.

_Your Council made a mistake._

The words flashed through her head, sharp-edged and ominous, the foundation of a plan she hadn't quite grasped. She watched Barton zip up his coat and found herself feeling oddly protective - no, not protective, because Barton could undoubtedly handle himself - _possessive_.

Clint was the only one who had ever bothered to look past her kill count; she was just Natalia to him, not the Widow, not an asset. He had the ludicrous notion that she could be redeemed, and somehow he had her believing it, too. She wouldn't let the Council take that - take _him_ \- so easily.

"Worth it, right?" Clint asked, still sounding grim. He stepped up beside her and nodded at the sunrise, the sky shot through with red and orange and pastel pinks. She considered for a moment.

"If you like that sort of thing," she retorted. Clint rolled his eyes, almost smiled, gave her a shove.

"Let's go insi-"

He paused, canted his head to the side. She heard it, too: the faint creak and pop of wood, brisk footsteps pounding against the shipping pallet stairs.


	13. Priorities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk we've had some family stuff going on, and we had to deal with that, and now it's business as usual again so here is a chapter! 
> 
> You're all invited to follow me on Tumblr (I'm agentsofpuppies there too but I'm trash and can't make it link whoops) and you can yell at me for more chapters there.

Barton brushed his fingers against her hand, just shy of grabbing her wrist, and moved to stand ridiculously in front of her. She scowled at the gesture.

"Clint?" It was only Coulson who stepped around the corner, immaculate once again in a suit and tie and shiny black shoes. He stopped short, surprise registering in his expression. "And Natalia."

"We kissed and made up," Barton retorted, deadpan. "What d'you want?"

That was new, Barton being standoffish with Coulson. His attitude sent anxiety fluttering through her chest. Coulson wasn't on their side anymore, was that the takeaway? They were cornered in the alcove and she hadn't bothered to give the space a critical assessment, she had simply identified it as Barton's and accepted that it was safe. Stupid and childish and she absolutely deserved whatever was coming.

She ran her foot along the side of the ledge, found one of the discarded arrows, crouched slowly to pick it up with her eyes fixed on Coulson. She listened hard, but couldn't hear additional footsteps or the sound of guns being primed to fire, only the faint noise of wind whipping around the corner.

"It's six-thirty," Coulson said evenly, but there was something in the twitch of his fingers, the way he licked his lips, that belied nerves. "You'll be late for the polygraph."

"You really _took care of it_ , huh?" Barton muttered. He shoved his hands back in his coat pockets, the gesture angry and aggressive, completely wrong on him.

"I said I'd try, Clint. One of our guys is administering the test and Fury's coming down to watch. It won't be like last time."

Last time, the midnight interrogation, the series of new injuries across Clint's back. She gripped the arrow a little tighter.

Coulson wasn't any better than her own handlers, sending Clint straight back to the Council on an apparently broken promise not to let it happen again. And if he wouldn't come willingly, they'd take him by force. Coulson was here to feel him out.

"Sure, fine," Clint agreed, but he didn't move. Natalia stepped carefully away, muscles drawn taut, waiting for a signal from Clint - kill or incapacitate? "And where're you gonna be?"

"I didn't know," Coulson said heavily. "You know I didn't know."

Clint made a doubtful sound of disbelief and turned back to the sunrise. Here was her cue, but she didn't know their play. She stepped forward anyway, and Coulson fell back with a hard, stricken expression, and _now_ she had his attention.

"Jesus Christ, Clint," Coulson snapped, a tremor to the words.

If there was backup, he would have called it in by now. She lunged. Clint flashed into motion as well.

He grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise, drawing her up short before she got within striking distance. It was instinct that made her whirl to face him, instinct that pulled her arm back in preparation of driving the arrow home, but then that soft, unfamiliar feeling welled in her chest again and stayed her hand.

It was an odd mix of trust and respect and - she would absolutely never admit to it - the tiniest bit of friendly affection, and it left her with a white-knuckle grip on the arrow shaft while her pulse pounded frantically in her ears. Clint should be dead. Not that she _wanted_ him dead, not anymore, but historically, things had never ended well for those colleagues who chose to surprise her.

The usual dismissals played through her head: Barton was an idiot, Barton was sloppy, Barton was a beneficiary of dumb luck. She could hide behind criticism and scathing, pretend she felt safer there, but she knew the truth. Clint had realized the shift in her feelings before she had caught on herself, that was how he'd found the confidence to interrupt her attack. Clint trusted her.

He wasn't even looking at her, focused instead on Coulson, who to his credit hadn't turned tail and run.

"We'll meet you inside," he said coolly, still keeping that tight grip on her arm.

Of course Coulson wasn't a threat, _she_ was the threat, half-feral with conditioning, strike first and ask questions after.

Coulson scrutinized them for another moment, clearly still wary, then turned his back and left with slow, measured steps. Clint waited until they heard his shoes stomping against the shipping pallets to let her go.

"Maybe let's not skewer Coulson before breakfast," he said, and held out a hand for the arrow. He wasn't watching her with fear or disgust or any of the other emotions she expected to see written across his face.

 _Hawkeye, remember? I notice everything_.

Because he had seen her picking up the arrow and lining up an attack. He hadn't called her out. He hadn't bothered to stop her until she'd made an impression on Coulson.

He had used her, in a way, but she found she didn't - _couldn't_ \- mind. She owed him for getting her this far, even if he chose to cash in his favors by having her intimidate Coulson.

"You had a _disagreement_ ," she guessed, and gave up the weapon.

"He's still on our side, okay?" Clint muttered, a grudging note to the words.

She wished she could tell him that she hadn't meant the attack in earnest, that she wouldn't have hurt Coulson, that in the moment she had recalled his brief lesson on how to handle disagreements, ice cream and talking and _not_ killing….but she'd promised not to lie to him.

"I thought-"

She broke off, reluctant to put the imagined scenario into words, how she had envisioned taking down Coulson and his agents and fleeing S.H.I.E.L.D. with Clint rather than letting him be taken back to the Council by force.

"No, I'm doing it again," Clint interrupted. He tossed the arrow, scowled as it bounced against the ledge and over the side of the roof. "I'm dragging you into the middle of my shit. I noticed you picking up on the tension. I should've said something, not let you go off like that."

"Why didn't you?"

The question slipped out before she could consider whether or not it was smart to push. Clint's lips turned down a little more, hands going back in his pockets.

"He wants me to be wrong about you."

She arched a brow, but didn't point out how he had just proved Coulson right by allowing her to mount an attack. He probably didn't need to hear that.

"Fair enough," she said, keeping the words purposefully light and giving an unconcerned shrug. "I want you to be wrong about him."

She expected him to roll his eyes or do that humorless little chuckle or give her one of the odd affectionate gestures she was beginning not to mind, shoving into her with an elbow or shoulder or ruffling her hair.

"Not today, alright?" he said heavily. He laid his hand across her back, gave her a soft push toward the stairs. "I can't deal with you like this today."

It wasn't really a reprimand, but it stung just the same; she couldn't read Clint as well as she'd thought.

Natalia fell into step beside him, silent because he seemed to want it that way, following him back across the roof and into the warmth of the stairwell. Coulson waited at the end of the corridor near the elevator and she took a guess at what was coming.

Point having been made, Clint would say he was sorry, attempt to play mediator and encourage her to put Coulson at ease. She prepared herself for the admonishment, struggled to come up with a phrase sincere enough to convey feigned contrition while Clint's words echoed in her head, _be nice_ and _apologize_ and _try_.

Clint only rested his hand at the small of her back again and steered her around Coulson to the elevator.

"She doesn't handle confrontation well," he said coolly. "Don't sneak up on us next time."

He didn't even look at Coulson as he spoke, but she did, just a quick glance from the corner of her eye as they stepped onto the elevator. She watched Coulson's frown deepen, saw the creases in his forehead become more pronounced.

It wasn't strategic to alienate one of their only allies, nevermind whatever petty disagreement Clint had sparked between them, but she kept the opinion to herself. Clint situated himself on the far side of the elevator, scowling down at his shoes. Whether intentional or not, he had stuck her in the middle again.

"You have a meeting, too," Coulson told her as they dropped smoothly back to the barracks level. Clint's head snapped up.

"Since when?" he demanded. Coulson ignored him.

"You'll be working through a couple of dead-end missions with Agent Hill, see if you can make yourself useful."

She gave a single sharp nod of acknowledgment while Clint balled his hands into fists beside her.

"I'm going with her."

It was such an obvious play for power, and an unnecessary one. Irritation flared sharp at Clint's words. If the interrogations and meetings were starting in earnest, they needed to work together.

Natalia shot Clint a challenging expression and stepped back, no longer the buffer between him and Coulson. Clint directed his scowl at her instead.

"You're right, I'm tired of being in the middle," she told him coolly. "I'll go by myself."

She stopped just short of pointing out that she hadn't needed his support in the meeting with Fury, and she probably didn't need him this time either.

"What, you're on Coulson's side now?" Clint scoffed.

"You said we're all on the same side," she retorted.

" _Stop_ ," Coulson interjected, and he sounded tired again. "Stop. She's going alone because the meeting with Hill is at eight, same time as your polygraph." Clint opened his mouth to argue; Coulson held up a hand to silence him. "Natalia, have breakfast, shower, wear something besides Clint's hoodie."

The elevator slid to a stop and Coulson waved her out, no time to dispute the orders, not that she wanted to. She made the hallway in two quick steps, staring determinedly ahead so she wouldn't have to look at either of them. She couldn't quite suppress the heat stinging her cheeks.

Clint teasing her about the hoodie was bearable, it didn't matter so much when it was Clint accusing her of being gross and sentimental, but even _Coulson_ had noticed. She'd have to burn the thing now, or find another arrow with Coulson's name on it.

She made it halfway down the hall before she realized Clint wasn't following. When she looked back he was still standing in the elevator with Coulson, managing to look defiant and a little remorseful all at once. He appeared to be doing most of the talking, and maybe he was trying to make things right between them.

She punched in her access code and pretended to step into her room, looking back one more time to watch the elevator doors slide shut.

Coulson had wanted her out of the way; the jab about the hoodie had been a calculated attack to distract her, get her away from Clint, she realized that now, but Coulson didn't seem to have any sinister intentions. Clint had looked comfortable with the interaction, if unhappy.

Natalia decided to ask him about it over breakfast.

They had eaten breakfast together every morning since Clint had dragged her back to the safe house, and while their relationship was admittedly short, it was a routine she found reassuring. She skipped the first of Coulson's orders and went for the shower instead. Clint was banging on her door half an hour later, closed-fisted and loud and unceremonious.

He was dressed in jeans and a tight grey t-shirt, hair slicked down from his shower. He held two flat boxes with a pair of coffee cups balanced on top, a peace offering after their clipped words in the elevator.

"Breakfast?" she asked, and took the coffees.

"We have to figure out if you're Krispy Kreme or Dunkin'," Clint replied, feigning serious. "It's part of the recruitment questionnaire."

She wasn't sure why they needed twenty-four assorted donuts to determine that, but stepped aside to let him in anyway. It was comforting, how Clint subscribed to the breakfast routine without being asked or reminded.

"S.H.I.E.L.D really does have everything," she said. She examined the coffees, both from the Starbucks in the cafeteria, both with _Clint_ written in black sharpie on the sleeve. He'd scribbled his name out on one and taken the time to write _Nat_ in its place, the _t_ crossed with an arrow.

She realized the smile pulling at her lips too late to hide it, and sat on the couch and leaned forward to put the drinks on the table so she wouldn't have to look at Clint. He slid the donut boxes in beside the coffee, side-by-side, but didn't sit beside her.

He wouldn't meet her eyes, and there was something hesitant in the way he hovered beside the sofa. Maybe he thought she was taking their dispute in the elevator seriously, after they'd only just made up from the last argument, but then she noticed a receipt attached to the top of one of the boxes - S.H.I.E.L.D. _didn't_ have everything.

"You went off-base," she guessed.

"Just long enough to grab these," he told her, definitely sounding guilty. "Coulson thought it might help, even if it was only ten minutes."

"Did it?" she asked. "Help?"

"Yeah," he said. His shoulders sagged, like it cost him something to admit it. "Look, I know it isn't fair-"

"I don't mind," she told him dismissively. She flipped the nearest box open and chose a donut while Clint watched her with a cautious sort of optimism. "Did you work things out with Coulson?"

"I'm saying a lot of _I'm sorry_ this morning." He sat beside her and shoved half a donut into his mouth. "Coulson too, even though he didn't have to. I was the one looking for a fight after I dropped you off with Fury."

"What's Coulson have to be sorry for?"

"He couldn't stop the interrogations. He's still treating you like an asset. He doesn't trust my judgement."

"You're projecting," she said, and took a donut from the second box. "You don't trust _his_ judgement." Clint scowled at the assessment.

"He just doesn't get it. He doesn't know you like I do."

The way he said it, all confidence and casual attitude, made her pulse jump with unfounded apprehension. How could he claim that familiarity when she couldn't even manage to draw him out of his terrible mood?

"You don't know me," a reflexive defense. She almost crossed her arms, remembered at the last moment her fingers were sticky with glaze.

"I've been shadowing you for two weeks," Clint replied, as if that was an adequate counter argument. He crammed the other half of the donut in his mouth and began ticking points off on his fingers. "I watched you watch Jurassic Park in your underwear. I watched you order two ice cream sundaes for dinner. I watched you stop in the middle of surveillance to go in a bookstore and hide behind the shelves and read three chapters of Harry Potter."

"That's irrelevant," she said, the words sharper than she had intended. She knew Clint had been spying on her, he'd said as much, but she hadn't realized how much spying he'd managed to do without her noticing. "That was a cover."

"Bullshit. That was _you_. That was you fighting for ten minutes of normal in a secondhand bookstore. Nobody deserves to live like that. That's what Coulson doesn't see."

He was doing it again, testing the limits of their connection with truths she'd rather not acknowledge, boring into her with those intense grey eyes and a forceful sincerity, captivating and terrifying all at once. She squirmed under the scrutiny but couldn't break his gaze.

Clint pulled all the secret parts of her out of the darkness and didn't fault her for them. She had always simultaneously hated and longed for the quiet moments, the little weaknesses that would end up getting her killed, but made living as the Widow endurable. Clint seemed to like those parts best, but Coulson?

"Because I don't want him to see," she said quietly. "It's dangerous for people to know you like that."

"I dunno, Red. I saw you like that and look where it got you. New apartment, free coffee, shitload of donuts. If it was me, I'd make it a habit to make new friends."

It would never be that easy for her. Always suspicious, always wary, one instant of misplaced confidence or an unguarded conversation meaning death or worse. The situation with Clint was a simple twist of fate, the universe choosing to grant her one person who didn't immediately want her dead. Clint was enough.

For a moment she considered saying it aloud, testing their bond the same way Clint tested it. Wasn't that what he wanted, more honesty, more Natalia, less analytics and fewer masks? He would probably give her one of the soft gestures that came so naturally to him, the ones that made her flinch and drag the walls back up, a hand on her knee or their shoulders pressed together. There was something appealing about the thought this time.

But what if she was reading him incorrectly again? If this wasn't a make-Natalia-feel-better conversation but a pull-it-together, I'm-tired-of-your-issues one?

She broke eye contact and slid toward the opposite end of the sofa to put more space between them. She shouldn't want anything from him at all, or even care why he was pushing her.

"This conversation is about your handler, not me."

"Alright, I get it," Clint relented, "no deep emotional crap before interrogations. You don't have to go all KGB on me. _Your handler_ ," he mocked with a snort. "You've punched the guy in the face, I think you're on a first-name basis."

She curled into the corner of the sofa, chewed her lip, watched him cast around for a subject change.

"What about the donuts?"

A safe topic, easy, even though he was still studying her with the too-serious expression.

She thought about telling him both boxes sucked. She didn't want to give him another piece of herself to go with all the others he'd collected in Germany, not when she knew relatively nothing about him in comparison. She thought about choosing his preference and making it her own, but Clint had played the assessment expertly, having one donut from each box and carefully not showing favoritism.

He seemed genuinely interested in her answer, however, so she pushed away the impulse to deflect and pointed at the box with Krispy Kreme across the top.

"Those are better. The others are dry."

"I knew it!" he grinned, and lifted his hand for a sticky high-five. The gesture was deliberate, a bridge across her instinctive withdrawal. She gave in and slapped his palm, after a second's consideration. "See, it's things like this that make me feel good about bringing you in."

He licked the glaze from his fingers and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. He stretched one arm across the back of the couch.

The thought came, unbidden and unexpected, to go back and sit beside him. It didn't have to mean anything, it could be another stolen moment, ten minutes in a bookstore.

"You feel okay about the meeting with Hill?"

The opportunity passed. He had learned to read her, learned when she wanted him to back off. Wasn't that what she wanted?

"It can't be worse than Fury," she replied, unsure if she meant it in a cruel way or just as another deflection.

"Maria's fair," Clint said, choosing to ignore the jab. "She'll play nice until you don't. She's up for a promotion, too, so don't give her a hard time."

There was the faintest hint of warning to his tone, and she got the impression that, like Coulson and May, Agent Hill was one of the people Clint wanted her to connect with. She filed the realization away, thoughts sticking instead to that word, _promotion_.

She didn't want to contemplate ways to gain the upper hand in the interview, but it was how she'd been trained to think. The intel was interesting, too valuable to leave unexamined.

"What kind of promotion?" she asked, and tried to inject just the right note of polite interest into the words. Clint still narrowed his eyes.

"Deputy Director. And you can stop looking for leverage, Hill's too smart for that."

She considered denying it, but Clint arched a skeptical brow before she could get the words out.

"Sorry," she told him instead. It didn't come out sounding sincere, and Clint shook his head.

"You don't have to apologize for covering your ass. If you feel better having something on Hill, that's fine, just don't act on it. She'll know you know, anyway. She's good."

Better than the Black Widow? Natalia doubted that, but Clint seemed to think Hill would be a match for her.

She almost asked him what made Hill so special, what training she'd had that put her in the running for Fury's second in command. Then his phone beeped a text. His expression closed off, he leaned forward with elbows resting on his knees and blew out a sharp breath.

"That's Coulson," he said without looking at the text. "Let's get it over with."

He stood and reached down to pull her up. She couldn't see Clint, he was the archer again, every bit the focused sniper, a hard set to his jaw and eyes a shade too dark to put her at ease.

She could do the same trick, put up a mask and shut down in an instant, but it felt wrong somehow coming from Clint.

She slid her hand into his. His grip was soft despite his attitude; he ran his thumb against the back of her hand and she felt the coil of anxiety in the pit of her stomach relax.

He held on to her until they passed into the hallway and caught sight of Coulson at the end of the corridor, then dropped her hand and left her to keep pace beside him.

"4-C, right?" he growled as they drew even with Coulson. Coulson nodded, clapped one hand against Clint's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Nobody's going to-"

"Whatever," Clint muttered, and shrugged away from the gesture. He rounded the corner, out of sight.

"Come on," Coulson told her. She watched him attempt a smile, probably shooting for reassurance in the face of Clint's stormy demeanor. He reached out a hand, and she could imagine him giving her the same as he'd given Clint, a fortifying shoulder squeeze, or his palm against her back to steer her down the hallway. She kept her distance, wary and aloof.

None of her handlers had ever made this kind of effort. She would receive reprimands, or an ego boost (lies, she wasn't special), or a speech about her duty to Russia and the ones who had created her. None of them would have tolerated the insubordination Clint had showed Coulson.

It was easy to dismiss the leniency as a weakness, but under the scoffing and skepticism, she knew better. Coulson was trying to help, attempting to hold things together while Clint shut down. He had told her as much in the containment cell. _His agent_ , he had called Clint, his _priority_.

She wasn't stupid. There was no love lost between them, and she didn't doubt Coulson would throw her under the bus for Clint in an instant if it came down to it. She couldn't fault him for it; she was prepared to return the favor.

But if they could keep Clint away from the Council more effectively by working together, she was willing to call a temporary truce.

"You and I," she told him, "our priorities are the same."

She watched his eyebrows furrow then lift in incredulity as he caught her meaning. She heard him mumble something that sounded suspiciously like _sonofabitch_ as she rounded the corner after Clint.

4-C turned out to be an interrogation room on one of the containment levels. Clint didn't speak to her again, or even look at her, but as they stepped into the crowded hallway he shuffled a half step to his right, his arm pressing against hers.

Fury stood near the door with the agent she presumed would be giving the polygraph, pointedly ignoring her, so she pretended the meeting in his office hadn't happened too.

The Council, ranged against the wall opposite Fury, certainly looked at her. She squared her shoulders and met their eyes in turn, a courtesy she hadn't granted them yesterday, and tried to project exactly how determined she was to tear them apart.

The agent on Fury's other side stepped forward to meet them.

"You're going with Hill," Coulson told her.

She recognized the woman from the cafeteria, the one who had been playing tour guide for the Council. _That_ was Hill?

Natalia sneered an arched a brow. The woman was hardly older than her, certainly not experienced enough to be Fury's second in command, and definitely not capable enough to outsmart the Black Widow.

"Later, Red," Clint quipped, probably not smart in front of the Council, and gave her a decidedly grim smile.

"Barton," Fury rumbled. He pushed open the door of the interrogation room and stepped inside. Hill brushed past them and continued back the way they'd come, obviously expecting her to follow.

She looked back in time to see Clint's grin fade, watched him pause a beat too long before he followed Fury into the interrogation room.

He hadn't been scared when they were outnumbered in the alley, or during the car chase, or even when they came off Fury's jet to sixteen rifles pointed at their faces. He certainly wasn't scared of her. But this time was different. It was written in his hesitation now and the way he'd been lashing out at Coulson all morning: Clint was afraid of the Council and what they might be planning.

None of the Council looked at her again as they filed into the interrogation room after Fury, but she looked at them, memorized faces even though she didn't have names to match, studied the little nuances and mannerisms that would give them away in a crowd, made note of which assistant belonged to each.

She wouldn't let them touch Clint again after this. The Council had to go.


	14. Agent Ma'am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been personally victimized by 2016 you guys. Here's a chapter. Find me on tumblr @agentsofpuppies.

Hill didn't check to see if Natalia was following, just continued purposefully down the corridor.

It felt like a betrayal to leave Clint alone. There hadn't been any point in giving him false reassurances; she didn't know the right words, and even if she had, she would have been lying to him. She couldn't pull him out of the interrogation. Still, she felt drawn to wait in the hallway. She took a step back toward Coulson and the interrogation room.

Coulson gave her a stern expression, snapped his fingers once and pointed sharply down the corridor. She bristled with indignity at the gesture; nobody had ever dismissed her with that level of careless disregard.

"She took a left," Coulson called. When she looked back, Hill was gone.

Defying orders and causing a scene wouldn't be supporting Clint. It would only reinforce the Council's belief that he was wrong to bring her in. As much as she hated it, Natalia knew the best option was to do as they asked.

She gave Coulson a final disgruntled sneer and went to find Hill. She wasn't in the next hallway, but she caught a shadow turning the corner ahead.

She could call for Hill to wait, but that implied Hill was in control, and she absolutely wasn't. Natalia kept running, slowing to a brisk walk as she rounded the corner and drew even with Hill. She still didn't look at Natalia, just maintained her pace down the hallway.

"Try and keep up. You aren't my only appointment today."

_Appointment_? That's all she and Clint were, appointments on Hill's calendar, boxes to tick on the way to Deputy Director? Fury and Garner and Coulson - _especially_ Coulson - were putting in an astounding number of hours and effort attempting to help. She wasn't worth any of it, but Clint was, and if Agent Hill couldn't contribute to the team effort to clear him of suspicion, maybe Natalia owed her an attitude adjustment.

But she was supposed to be working with Hill, and at least putting up the pretense of cooperation. She decided to let the comment slide. Just this once.

Their interrogation room turned out to be a small conference room, leather chairs and a long polished table with a coffee maker and a selection of bagels at one end, and a stack of files in the middle.

Hill moved to the coffee maker and started the coffee, then laid out two paper plates from the stack by the coffee cups. Natalia took it as permission and joined her.

"Wasn't sure if Barton remembered to feed you," Hill said without looking at her, occupied instead smearing butter on a bagel. "I didn't see you in the cafeteria this morning."

Natalia almost rolled her eyes at the tactics, the desperate little nuances that were Hill's attempts at exuding superiority; not bothering to make eye contact, taking shots at Clint, the implication that this entire _appointment_ was a waste of time.

Still, Clint had asked her to try.

"Thanks," she said, as she and Hill took seats opposite from each other. Hill pulled a file and shuffled the papers inside.

"You should address me as Ma'am or Agent Hill," she replied. Her tone suggested that Natalia should try again.

Well, she had made an effort. Clint couldn't fault her for that. _Two_ asinine comments in five minutes was a little much, however, so surely he'd understand.

Natalia arched a brow and licked cream cheese from her fingers.

"Thanks, _Maria_."

_That_ earned her Hill's full attention. She pushed her chair back and drew her sidearm as she stood, and now things were going to get interesting.

Natalia smiled slowly and braced her hands against the table, ready to use the momentum to get the drop on Hill. If she wanted a fight, Natalia wouldn't disappoint. If Hill managed to land a hit, she might actually do her the courtesy of sticking _Agent_ in front of her name.

"Up," Hill barked at her. She kept the gun held loosely at her side, more insurance than because she meant to use it, if Natalia had to guess. Hill was clearly accustomed to having agents jump at her orders, so Natalia reconsidered her play, leaning back against her chair and taking a leisurely bite of bagel.

Hill strode around the table and hauled her up by the arm, swung her toward the door, and marched her out.

Natalia let her, more curious than worried. She maintained an air of polite interest because the calm indifference seemed to irk Hill; Natalia watched her lips twitch, as if she was muttering soundlessly to herself.

Maybe Hill deserved her promotion, or maybe she was just an incredibly talented ass-kisser. Either way, respect was earned, not demanded. Natalia didn't stomp around S.H.I.E.L.D. ordering everyone to call her Agent or Black Widow. Not yet, anyway. And Hill had a hell of a long way to go before Natalia even considered addressing her as ma'am.

They came to a pair of reinforced steel doors, and she felt the first faint stirring of apprehension. Maybe she'd miscalculated how far Hill was willing to go.

Hill holstered her gun and swiped her badge through the keypad beside the door, but kept a firm grip on Natalia's arm. The corridor beyond was uncomfortably familiar, rows of identical steel doors and agents with rifles and protective gear standing at intervals against the wall.

She felt a little sick, anxiety wrenching her gut, as she imagined Clint coming out of his interrogation and tracking her to another containment cell. What if Natalia was gone by the time he found her, lost to the Black Widow? It worked like that sometimes, a place or a person triggering something in her head, flipping a switch, and the containment cell certainly qualified. Clint couldn't beat her in hand-to-hand again.

"I need a cell," Hill announced. The guards stood a little straighter, hoisted their rifles a little higher.

"Seven's empty, Ma'am," the closest guard spoke up. Natalia scoffed at that, despite the wave of panic building in her chest. Hill jerked her toward the empty cell.

She was in too deep now, of course she wouldn't take the blow to her pride and ask to go back to the conference room, but it suddenly didn't seem like such an affront to be asked to give Hill a conciliatory _Agent_ and read the files on the table.

Hill swiped her badge again and pulled the cell door open. The room was empty, blank white walls and a security camera in the corner.

"Until you decide to cooperate," Hill said, and gave her a shove. Her fear dropped away all at once at Hill's words.

Natalia spun and curled her lips into a sneer, just in time for Hill to slam the door in her face, but it hardly mattered. The punishment wasn't calculated or deliberate; it wasn't meant to be psychologically unsettling. Deputy Director Agent Ma'am had put her in a time-out. Undignified, sure, but the concept was laughable. Hill would give up the exercise long before she did. If she had to guess, the encounter wouldn't stretch any longer than the end of Clint's interrogation.

Hill wouldn't want to seem incompetent. She wouldn't want Fury to know she had immediately bypassed negotiation in favor of punishment; she'd want Fury to think she was capable of gathering intel efficiently. For Hill, dealing with her this way was a time-sensitive inconvenience, while her only alternative to sitting in the containment cell was sitting in her quarters.

Hill would break first, especially if the assignment was some sort of test from Fury. A final demonstration of her skills as an agent, win over the Black Widow and gather intel. The last boost her resume needed to lock down the promotion. It was going to be an interesting morning.

Natalia settled on the floor to wait, back pressed against the wall opposite the door. She could hear a murmur of voices in the corridor, indistinct, but didn't make an effort to eavesdrop.

Half an hour passed, the hallway gone silent. Maybe Hill was watching the camera, waiting for her to wave or signal that she was ready to talk. She lifted one hand and gave the camera her middle finger.

Another half hour, give or take, and the imagined images of Hill fuming as she watched the security feed ceased to be entertaining. Now she was just bored, restless, her thoughts drifting unbidden back to Clint and that half second of hesitation he'd showed before stepping into the interrogation room.

This wasn't being a very good friend. Not that she had any experience at all having a friend, but she felt certain she should be waiting in the corridor when his interrogation was over, not waiting for him to come pull her out of another containment cell. She should have cooperated, given Hill whatever information she wanted, and gotten through the interview quickly enough to go back and find Clint.

The soft drone of conversation was back, breaking her train of thought. The lock clicked and the door swung open, and here was her chance. Before she could speak, Hill broke the tense silence.

"Apologize, and we can go back upstairs," Hill said in greeting. She was smug, as if she expected an uneventful hour in a cell to be effective punishment.

_Nope._

It had been a nice thought, to selflessly abandon her pride and play Hill's game to help Clint. Maybe he would appreciate the idea of the gesture, maybe it would be enough that she _intended_ to be standing in the corridor waiting for him.

"Well?" Hill added, an impatient, expectant edge to her tone.

"Is this a covert government agency or a preschool?" Natalia retorted. "Time-outs don't get results, Agent Ma'am."

Hill scowled at that, took a step into the cell.

"You'd talk, if I was sanctioned to use _real_ interrogation techniques."

"I won't tell if you don't," Natalia offered, a smirk tugging her lips. She had won this round.

Hill seemed to realize the mistake in letting on exactly how far she could go. She sneered and swept from the cell, slamming the door behind her.

A little disappointing. They were at a stalemate already. Natalia could snark and provoke Hill as much as she wanted, but Hill wouldn't jeopardize her promotion by overstepping her authority; she was too smart for that. Natalia certainly wasn't going to give Hill the apology she wanted. She was stuck in the cell until Clint came for her.

_If_ Clint came for her.

It was a traitorous thought, after all of the punishment Clint had endured for bringing her in, but it stuck in the back of her mind nonetheless. He had already abandoned her once.

She had accepted his apology - she couldn't really fault him for losing patience and growing frustrated - but the understanding didn't mend the fissures he'd rent in the trust she had for him. He could have the benefit of the doubt, but she'd be careful going forward to have her own backup plan.

Which, at the moment, consisted of waiting for Clint to bail her out of the containment cell. Plan B could use some work.

Not quite an hour this time, and she heard voices in the corridor, the click of the lock rolling back. Things winding down with the Council, pushing Hill's timeline?

"Take a break," Hill said as she pushed the door open. "I won't need backup."

The guards moved off, quiet footsteps and the shuffle of rifles. Natalia felt her interest spark at Hill's new overconfidence; it would be entertaining to shut her down again.

"Barton's interrogation should be over soon," Hill said. She leaned against the stretch of wall beside the door, arms crossed, wearing the same stupid smug grin Natalia had wiped off her face an hour ago.

A cheap tactic, playing on her relationship with Clint. Was that the trump card? Natalia stared at the opposite corner of the cell rather than rewarding Hill with the attention she wanted.

"Coulson told me you're _attached_ ," Hill added when she didn't reply, and there was something teasing about the words, an implication that had her hackles up and a retort on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back, although the effort made her resolve waver dangerously. "So let's try this a different way. You don't see Barton again until I'm satisfied with the outcome of our interview.

"The results of his interrogation, his reasons for going to Medical, his next appointment with the Council, that's all privileged information now, and you're not privileged. You'll stay here until I say otherwise."

She looked sharply up at Hill, studied her expression, her body language, trying to determine if she was bluffing. Clint had warned her that Hill was good at her job. She couldn't really tell if Hill was feeding her lies or not, but something about the words rang true, given what she knew about the Council and their methods.

And it had been two hours already. She wasn't sure how long a session with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s lie detector was supposed to last, but Hill didn't seem in a hurry to move things along. Clint wouldn't just sit around waiting for Hill to return her, either. He'd come looking if his interrogation was over.

No, something had gone wrong, it wasn't only a game between her and Hill anymore. Fury's influence hadn't been enough to keep the interrogation civil. Clint had let something slip, earned himself another round with the Council, and he was hurt.

The grey hallway with its glass doors and cloying antiseptic smell stuck in her mind, and her breath came a little quicker. She would have to search for Clint there, a risk.

A trap? Lure her into the medical wing? Why bother when Hill already had her conveniently in a cell?

She pushed herself up, palms pressed flat against the wall to stop her hands clenching into fists.

"Why is Barton going to Medical?"

Hill arched one eyebrow.

Something white-hot and malignant began to claw its way into her chest.

"What did you let them do?"

She was careful to keep the words soft and neutral, but Hill knew anyway. Natalia watched her grin grow wider.

"You're asking the wrong questions." Hill replied. "Try ' _Can we resume our interview please, Agent Hill_?'."

The interview was over. Natalia charged, and Hill stood frozen a half-second too long, watching with wide eyes instead of preparing to counter.

She tackled Hill to the floor, rolled and pinned her, had one arm around her throat and the other hand poised to snap her neck before reason caught up with instinct.

She'd ruin her second chance before it even started. And Clint….

_Fuck Barton._

But the deplorable sentimentality still had her repositioning her hold, because Barton would be _disappointed_ if she murdered Agent Ma'am in the containment cell. A disgusting weakness, and Barton was an asshole.

The shift in technique cost her. Hill twisted and squirmed, clawed at her forearm exactly where Barton had sutured the cut from the broken glass, drew a leg up and kicked the spot where the tranquilizer arrow had stuck in her thigh.

Another cheap tactic. Natalia shoved her away and rolled back to her feet with a sneer.

Hill scrambled up and took a defensive stance, backing slowly toward the door. Natalia let her think she'd make it, and she watched Hill's lips pull up into a smirk as she drew closer to the safety of the corridor.

Hill was skilled, and she wasn't afraid to exploit every emotional weakness and physical injury Barton had inflicted over the past week. But Natalia was faster.

She charged again, caught Hill in the chest with her shoulder and slammed her back against the wall. A kick to the knee, solid punch to the gut. Hill slid down, winded and gasping. Natalia gripped the front of her shirt, dragged her up, and pressed her into the wall again.

"Where's Barton?"

Hill only glared back, defiant despite the pain written behind her eyes.

There was someone monitoring the security feed, the guards would come back. She was on borrowed time already. She drove her knee into Hill's stomach, crouched beside her while she doubled over on the floor.

"Where is Agent Barton?"

Still no answer, but Natalia heard something else, a sharp buzz and crackle, and her leg was on fire.

It was an intuitive fear that made her back off, although she was more surprised and indignant than hurt. Hill leapt at her, suddenly recovered, brandishing the same model of taser Barton had threatened her with.

Of course Hill knew how to take a punch. Of course she had scoured the past week's security footage for an exploit. This was why she hadn't wanted the guards in the hallway.

Did Fury know his protege fought dirtier than any of the Red Room girls? Did Barton expect her not to retaliate?

She disarmed Hill with a move that would have broken her arm, if she wasn't still dialing down the force of her attacks, but the damage was done. She was off, rattled, stuck between tempering her skills and giving herself over to the impulse to tear Hill apart for ever daring to try and control her the same way her handlers had, with fear and borrowed power.

Hill took advantage, pressing forward, delivering a barrage of jabs and kicks that left her no choice but to block and back off. There were openings, but Natalia didn't trust herself to take them, didn't trust herself to stop attacking if she got through Hill's defenses.

She only needed to dodge away, slam the door and lock Hill in the cell, buy enough time to disappear and find Barton. Better than letting the fight stretch indefinitely.

She allowed herself one hit, a halfhearted punch to the face that probably wouldn't even bruise. Hill staggered back and Natalia lunged for the door, eyes on the empty corridor.

She would check the interrogation room first, then the medical wing. They wouldn't stand a chance of catching her once she was clear of the Containment level; she was too skilled at blending into crowds, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. base was perpetually crowded-

Hill grabbed her from behind, fingers curling into the back of her shirt. _Sloppy_ , Natalia chastised herself, once again distracted by thoughts of Barton instead of focusing on the fight at hand.

Natalia spun to break the hold and land another punch. Hill was hoping she'd turn and fight, she realized too late to dodge; Hill slammed an elbow to the side of her head and pushed her to the floor.

Her vision blurred white with pain, but she could sense Hill standing over her. She said something, the words far off and muffled, and pushed the toe of her boot into Natalia's side.

Every instinct screamed for her to retaliate. She rolled up on hands and knees and forced her eyes open, watched Hill collect the taser and head for the door.

She pushed herself up and made an unsteady attempt to reach the corridor; the cell swung to one side and she staggered, managed to recover. Hill didn't even look back.

"Still waiting for that interview," she called as she pulled the cell door closed, and Natalia hated the condescension in her tone.

She fell against the door, too late, a sick coil of anxiety settling in the pit of her stomach. She hadn't thought...hadn't even imagined it was possible….

She had lost the fight, something that hadn't happened in years. Granted, she hadn't been trying as hard as she could have, and Hill fought dirty, but she'd still _lost._ To _Hill_. And Clint...Clint was under interrogation, hurt, because of her, and she'd only managed to piss off Hill and make things even worse.

She slammed her fist into the door, but that didn't help, either. It only kindled the little traces of panic building in her chest.

She needed leverage, but Hill had all the advantages. Negotiation was out, she definitely wasn't giving Hill the satisfaction. She needed a weapon.

She shook out her hand and flexed sore fingers, studying the empty cell for an exploit. Nothing, save for the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

It hadn't been a very good plan the first time she thought of it, and it still didn't hold much promise, but if disabling the camera would get Hill back in the cell it was worth trying. She knew all of Hill's tricks now, and wouldn't lose a second time.

She spent long minutes judging the angle, until her head stopped throbbing, then backed into the corner of the cell opposite the camera. There was no knowing how securely it was mounted, but she only needed to pull a wire or two. One solid jump would do it.

She sprinted the short distance across the cell and leapt at the camera. Her ankle throbbed a protest and she knew the attempt was wasted, even before her fingers closed around nothing.

She landed in a sloppy crouch and sucked a breath through clenched teeth. This was the new Natalia? A week at S.H.I.E.L.D. and already losing her edge? Losing to _Hill_?

She pulled off her shoe and hurled it at the security camera. It felt better than punching the door, anyway. And…

The camera's position was off, just an inch or two. She pushed herself up and tried again, aiming this time. It felt stupid and undignified but it worked, and she kept at it until the camera was hanging by a tangle of wires.

The soft hum of conversation echoed in the corridor. She jumped again, caught the camera easily this time, pulled until it came free of the wires and she dropped back to the floor. _Now_ she had a weapon.

The keypad beeped and the lock slid back. She weighed the camera in her hand and lined up the shot. Hill wouldn't even make it into the cell this time.

The door opened wide, Hill's confidence a convenient weakness. Natalia immediately flung the camera at her head and charged.

It was Director Fury who leaned smoothly to the side to avoid the projectile. She came up short, breathing hard and trying to mask her surprise while Fury studied her with an expression of incredulity.

"Put your damn shoe on," he snapped, and stepped back into the corridor.


End file.
